Page 17 of Tattooed Vow

We circle to the side alley, keeping low. Garbage overflows from dumpsters and the smell of rot permeates the air. A stray cat hisses at our approach before darting behind a pile of discarded furniture. The door on the west side has a busted lock, just like Lev said. We slip into the building silently.

The place is worse than I expected. Cracked tiles, peeling wallpaper, stained carpets. It’s not a home but a safehouse, a temporary nest for vultures. Graffiti marks the walls with territorial claims and obscenities. A cockroach scuttles across my path, disappearing into a crack in the baseboards.

We creep up the stairs, moving by instinct. There are no creaks, no unnecessary noise. When we reach the third floor, I signal Viktor to watch the hall while Lev and I approach the apartment.

I can hear them inside. The faint clink of bottles. A muttered curse. The static of a television tuned to some mindless program.

I draw my gun, the metal cold in my hand. Lev does the same, his breathing steady beside me. We’ve done this dance too many times to count.

I nod once. Lev kicks in the door without hesitation.

The door splinters at the frame, swinging violently inward. The two men spin around, surprised but armed. I have my gun trained on them before either can blink.

“Sit,” I order.

The apartment is sparse, with a stained couch, a folding table covered in takeout containers, and a mattress on the floor. Thewalls are bare except for water damage in the corners. It smells of cigarettes and cheap aftershave.

They comply, slowly raising their hands. The tall one’s eyes are cold and calculating. The tattooed one’s gaze darts around, looking for an escape route that doesn’t exist.

“Morozov sent you,” I say. It’s not a question.

The tall one sneers. “We don’t know who you’re talking about.”

I step closer, pressing the barrel of my gun against his forehead. The metal kisses his skin, leaving a circular impression. He doesn’t flinch, but his pulse quickens at his throat, a small tell that betrays his fear.

The neck tattoo guy swallows. His eyes dart toward the floor, searching for something. I file it away.

“I won’t ask again,” I say softly. Quiet threats always carry more power than shouted ones.

The tall one sighs. “You already know who sent us.”

“Then tell me what he wants.”

He smirks. “What do you think? You killed his brother. He wants what anyone in this life wants. Payback.”

Images flash in my mind of Morozov’s brother gurgling on his own blood, his eyes wide with surprise as life drains from them. It had been necessary.

I keep my aim steady. “And Sandy?”

His lips curve into a crooked grin. “Collateral.”

My rage flares, but I keep it locked down. Barely. The idea of Sandy being hurt, her light extinguished because of the darkness that surrounds me, makes something primal and violent stir in my chest.

“What’s the plan?” I press.

“Otvali,” he hisses, spitting near my boots. Typical. The Russian equivalent of fuck off, and just as unoriginal.

But before I can react, the neck tattoo bastard lunges pulling a shotgun from beneath the sofa. The room explodes into gunfire.

I dive behind the overstuffed armchair as Lev and Viktor unleash hell. Bullets tear through drywall and furniture. The shotgun roars, grazing Lev’s shoulder. He grunts but stays upright.

Time slows, as it always does in these moments. My heartbeat steadies and my vision sharpens.

I roll out and take the shot. The tall one goes down first, a bullet straight to the chest. Blood blooms across his shirt like a crimson flower. His eyes widen in surprise. They always look surprised, as if they never truly believed their lives could end this way despite their chosen path.

The tattooed man fires wildly, but Viktor closes the distance, shooting him clean through the head.

Silence settles, broken only by Lev’s heavy breathing.

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