Page 76 of Tattooed Vow

I see a glimpse of movement and fire, but he’s quick, diving to new cover before my bullet can find him. A new sound comes from the roof's edge. The distinctive whoop-whoop of helicopter blades. His extraction has arrived.

“Helicopter approaching from the east,” I bark into my comm. “Rooftop extraction. Do we have anti-air options?”

“Negative,” comes the reply.

Cursing, I break from cover, sprinting to a new position that will give me a line of sight of the approaching helicopter. It is small and painted dark blue. It maneuvered to hover alongside the building, just below roof level, where my men on the ground would have difficulty targeting it.

Clever. The helicopter won’t land. Too vulnerable. Instead, Morozov will rappel down to it. I have seconds to prevent his escape.

Morozov runs to the roof's edge. I fire, my bullet catching him in the leg. He stumbles but doesn’t fall, returning fire wildly in my direction as he continues his desperate rush toward escape.

I pursue, ignoring the bullets whizzing past me. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten. Morozov reaches the edge, already unspooling a rope with a carabiner attached. The helicopter hovers just beyond, its door open, a man inside gesturing frantically.

Five feet. I lunge, tackling Morozov before he can secure the rope. We go down hard, rolling dangerously close to the edge. His gun skitters across the roof. Mine is pinned between us, useless for the moment. We grapple desperately, seeking an advantage.

Despite his wound, Morozov fights with the strength of a desperate man. His elbow catches me in the jaw, sending stars across my vision. I respond with a knee to his injured leg, drawing a howl of pain. We roll again, and suddenly, there’s nothing beneath my back but air. We were on the edge, teetering on the precipice.

For a suspended moment, we stare at each other, my hand gripping his coat collar, his fingers digging into my arm. Mutual destruction is one wrong move away. In his eyes, I see naked fear for the first time.

“It's over,” I gasp.

Something shifts in his expression, calculation replacing fear. “Perhaps another day, Popov.”

With surprising strength, he rips himself from my grasp, simultaneously shoving me back from the edge. As I scramble to maintain balance, he grabs his dropped rope, snapping the carabiner to his belt. Before I can reach him, he throws himself backward off the roof.

I lurch to the edge in time to see him swinging toward the waiting helicopter, dangling from the rope like some grotesque pendulum. The pilot is already gaining altitude, hauling Morozov away from the building.

I raise my weapon, trying to lock onto either Morozov or the pilot. But they are moving too erratically, the distance increasing each second.

“Blyat!” I slam my fist against the roof’s edge. So close. We had him, and I let him slip away.

The door to the roof bursts open as Viktor emerges, blood spattering his shirt, but none of it his own. “The building is secure,” he reports. “Three of Morozov's men dead, including the Butcher. Three captured, all wounded.”

“And our men?” I ask, already dreading the answer.

“One dead. Daveed. Took a burst to the throat early in the engagement. Three others injured, none critically.”

Daveed. A good man with a wife and infant daughter. Another debt to be repaid to Morozov. I close my eyes briefly, centering myself. “And the prisoners?”

“Secured for transport. Mostly lower-level enforcers, but they might have useful information.”

“Make sure they understand the benefits of their cooperation,” I instruct.

Viktor gives a curt nod, knowing that their cooperation is the only difference between death coming slowly and painfully or fast.

I glance again in the direction the helicopter has disappeared, frustration burning like acid in my gut. We'd dealt Morozov a significant blow today. Eliminated his second-in-command, killed or captured several of his men, and gained potential intelligence on his operations. By any objective measure, the ambush has been a success.

But the man himself, the threat to Sandy and our unborn child, remained at large. I promised her an end to this danger, and I have failed to fulfill my promise.

“We should move,” Viktor urges, eyeing me with concern. “Police response will be here soon.”

He’s right. Despite the isolated location and our arrangements with local law enforcement, an engagement of this scale won’t go unnoticed for long. And it’s better not to test those relationships unnecessarily.

As we descend to the ground floor, the aftermath of the battle lies before us. Bodies are being moved, shell casings collected, and evidence of our presence systematically erased. The familiar routine of violence and its cleanup is a dance I have participated in countless times throughout my life.

Outside, Aleksandr waits by the command vehicle, his expression thunderous. “He escaped.”

It isn’t a question, but I nod anyway. “Helicopter extraction. He had it standing by.”

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