Page 12 of Vicious Doll

"Intercepting Harlow's communications," Volkov replies without looking up. "Man is creature of habit. Uses same encryption, same channels. Amateur."

"The Director of a black ops agency is an amateur?"

Volkov makes a sound that might be a laugh in someone with an actual soul. "Harlow is bureaucrat with gun. Dangerous, yes. But predictable."

The device he's manipulating looks like the bastard child of a satellite phone and a circuit board that exploded. Wires spill from its guts, connected to three different monitors and what appears to be a modified signal amplifier. Whatever it is, it's clearly not standard issue.

"That doesn't look like something you can buy at Best Buy," I observe.

"SVR prototype. Improved with personal modifications." His fingers don't pause their rhythm on the keyboard. "Canisolate encrypted communications using signature recognition algorithms. Harlow has distinctive digital footprint. Like fingerprint, but for electronic transmissions."

"You stole Russian spy tech?"

"Not steal. Appropriate. After they tried to kill me." He glances up, eyes glittering with dark amusement. "Russian government and I have... complicated relationship."

"Don't we all," I mutter, hissing as Mikhail begins stitching my thigh with the sensitivity of a longshoreman.

The bunker's generators hum beneath the electronic chirps and beeps of Volkov's equipment. Outside, dawn has broken fully, pale sunlight filtering through narrow windows set high in the concrete walls. I try to make sense of the maps and data streams flickering across the primary monitor, but it's like reading hieroglyphics written by a drunk alien.

Suddenly, Volkov straightens, eyes narrowing at a particular set of data scrolling across his screen. "Interesting."

"Care to share with the class?"

He beckons me over, pointing to what looks like an intercepted message—strings of code and fragments of text. "Harlow is moving assets to secondary location. Black Sea facility." His finger traces a pattern across the screen. "Evacuation protocol. Full data purge scheduled."

"Which means?"

"He's destroying evidence. Covering tracks." Volkov's expression darkens. "And moving something valuable. Something he calls 'Vahnya Initiative.'"

That name again. The one that made Killion flinch.

"What the hell is Vahnya?" I demand.

Volkov's eyes meet mine, something almost like emotion flickering in their depths. "Not what. Who." He taps a command, and a grainy photograph appears on screen—a woman, beautiful in that severe Eastern European way, witheyes that could drill into your soul and cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread. "Vahnya was my wife."

The admission drops like a grenade between us. I stare at the photograph, at this ghost from his past, and suddenly the layers of history between him and Killion take on new dimensions.

"Was?"

"Killion happened." His voice goes flat, emotion cauterized by old pain. "Budapest, three years ago. Extraction went wrong. Or so I thought." His finger traces the woman's face on the screen, a gesture so tender it feels obscene coming from hands I've seen kill without hesitation. "Now I find her name in Harlow's files. Connected to program I never heard of."

"She's alive?" I ask, understanding dawning like a knife to the gut.

"Perhaps." His expression shutters closed again, the moment of vulnerability sealed behind steel doors. "Or her name is being used for something else. Either way, answers are at Black Sea facility."

"What exactly is this 'Vahnya Initiative'?" I press, studying the grainy photo of his wife.

Volkov's jaw tightens as he pulls up more intercepted files. "Based on these communications, appears to be chemical enhancement program. Pharmaceutical cocktails, genetic targeting, combat conditioning. Creating perfect assets who never question, never fail, never break."

"You're talking about brainwashing? Mind control?"

"More sophisticated. Neurochemical manipulation." His fingers bring up fragmented documents with chemical formulas and medical jargon. "Drugs that restructure synaptic pathways, create completely loyal operatives." His voice remains clinical, but his eyes burn with something raw. "And Vahnya—my Vahnya—is listed as 'primary architect.'"

"You think they're using your wife as some kind of... blueprint?"

"If she is still alive," he says, voice hollow, "they are using more than her name. Harlow's files mention 'continued extraction procedures.' Blood samples. Tissue. DNA sequencing. I don’t know full scope. I’ve been searching for her for three years. Now, is close to finding."

The implications hit me like a sledgehammer. Not sci-fi super-soldiers, but something worse because it's real—human experimentation disguised as national security. The kind of black-ops horror story that governments deny until the evidence is overwhelming, then excuse as necessary for freedom, democracy, whatever bullshit justifies treating people like lab rats.

---