Page 108 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

"Yes." The light turned green. I didn't hit the gas right away. Just gripped the wheel, waiting for him to say what came next.

He sniffled. "Will you come back too?"

"I will," I said. "I promise."

More silence. Then I heard him say "Okay," so softly it was like setting something heavy down. He ran off, his footsteps pattering away. Antonia picked up the receiver again, said, "I'll take care of them, sir," and hung up.

I set the phone back on the console.

The car slid back into the lane, passed through the last intersection. The gray outline of the industrial district was rising into view ahead.

I parked the car three hundred meters from the warehouse, behind an abandoned loading dock. Cut the engine. Didn't get out right away. Just sat there, looking through the rain-streaked windshield at that gray-white three-story building.

The metal door was half-open, dim yellow light spilling through.

That door wasn't large, but big enough for someone to slip through sideways. Most of the paint had peeled off the warehouse's exterior, exposing rusted metal sheeting underneath. Some pieces had curled up and rattled faintly in the wind.

There was a window on the second floor, barred with iron rods. The gaps between them were maybe two fingers wide, letting through the same yellow glow.

Anna was behind that window.

I could feel her there. Not see her—feel her. Something more primal than sight.

I pushed the car door open. Rain hit my face, cold.

Dmitri was already there. His black SUV sat about twenty meters to my right, lights off, crouched like a shadow.

He saw me get out and stepped out himself, holding a tablet. Its cold glow lit his face.

"She's still inside," he said, swiping the screen to pull up the building's floor plan. "Thermal imaging shows three people inthe north room on the second floor. One's in the corner, barely moving. That's Anna. Two on the first floor, one at the back door, one mobile by the side entrance. Sergei might be in another room on the second floor, or he hasn't arrived yet. But we've spotted some of his old crew moving around the perimeter."

"Snipers?"

"Set up on the third floor of that abandoned office building across the way. Full view of the north window on the second floor. Anything moves near that window, they can lock on in two seconds."

I nodded, took the tablet, and studied the floor plan. The warehouse layout wasn't complicated—open interior space, second floor divided into rooms. The north room had a barred window, but the gaps between the bars were wide enough for a bullet to pass through cleanly. Sergei probably thought that window was secure. He probably didn't realize that what felt safest to him gave me the clearest line of sight.

"Front and back sealed?"

"Sealed. Side vents covered too. The second he steps through any door, someone's waiting."

I handed the tablet back to Dmitri, grabbed a bulletproof vest from the back seat, and pulled it on over my shirt. Then I took my gun from the glove box, checked the magazine—full. The metallic click of the slide pulling back and snapping forward was sharp in the quiet air. When I finished, I looked up at the warehouse. That metal door was still half-open, yellow light spilling out onto the ground in a narrow warm strip.

"Stick to the plan," I said. "Wait for my signal."

Dmitri nodded. Didn't say anything else. He turned toward the SUV, spoke quietly into his radio. Then from maybe a dozen directions around us came soft movement, almost covered by the rain. I stood there, watching those scattered shadows slipbetween abandoned buildings, converging, closing in, settling into position, like an invisible net drawing tight.

I switched off my phone, pocketed it, and walked toward that metal door.

The inside of the factory was much larger than it appeared from the outside. The first floor was supported by several massive concrete pillars. Most of the overhead fluorescent lights were broken; only one was still struggling to stay on, flickering intermittently and cutting the space into patches of uneven light and shadow. The air carried the mixed smell of dust and rust. The concrete floor was scattered with broken glass and cigarette butts, and several oil drums, so corroded that their original colors were impossible to tell, were piled in the corner.

Two men stood at the foot of the stairs. They didn't look particularly tense, but both of their hands rested near their belts, their eyes fixed on me from the shadows. When I walked toward them, I didn't look at them. I simply headed straight for the stairs.

"He's waiting for you upstairs," one of them said. His voice was rough, smoke-scarred and raspy.

I didn't answer. Just climbed the metal steps, each footfall echoing loud in the empty space. When I reached the second floor, a long hallway stretched ahead. Lights hung at intervals overhead—some on, some dead—cutting the corridor into alternating segments of brightness and dark. At the far end, a door stood ajar, light bleeding through the crack, pooling on the floor in an irregular stripe.

I walked over and pushed it open.