Page 108 of Bratva Bidder
My silence stretches too long.
“Someone set us up,” I finally say. “They knew our drop. They knew our route. This isn’t small-time. It’s internal, or someone we’ve let too close. I need to see it for myself.”
“And you think going solo into a slaughter scene is smart? That you walking in there alone won’t make you a fucking target too?”
“I need eyes on the scene,now.”
“I should be there.”
“No,” I say sharply. “You stay with Nadya. With the kids. You protect them.”
“Even if that means you don’t come back?”
I exhale slowly. “Yes.”
“Fuck that,” he snaps, voice raw now. “You think I’m gonna sit on my ass in a hospital lobby while someone puts a bullet in your back? I’m coming.”
“No,” I repeat, firmer this time. “One of us stays with them. And it can’t be me.”
There’s a long pause. I can hear his breathing through the line, tight and strained, like he’s pacing.
Then, finally, he says, “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”
I end the call before I can change my mind.
The warehouse is quiet when I pull up. Too quiet.
No sirens. No cleanup crew. Just Yuri’s SUV out back and the lingering metallic scent of blood in the air.
Inside, the place looks like a war zone.
One crate is still partially intact, splintered open, the contents missing. Bullet casings litter the floor. Scorch marks paint the edges of the loading dock.
I walk through the carnage slowly, taking it all in.
Up in the surveillance office, I sift through the footage.
The exterior feed blacks out a minute before the hit.
The interior shows a ghost unit moving through the hallway—four men, full gear, visors down, no insignia. They’re in and out in under three minutes. One of them reaches for the camera right before the footage cuts.
I push away from the surveillance monitors and head back downstairs. My footsteps echo against concrete walls smeared with shadows and old bloodstains, leaving me acutely aware of how close death brushed by last night.
Maksim waits by the door, tense and silent. Next to him stands Yuri, our medic—face grim, eyes heavy from lack of sleep.
“Where’s Gleb?” I ask.
“Still breathing,” Yuri answers. “He’s in the side room.”
I nod once, stride quickly across the floor, and push open the door to the small breakroom turned medical station. Gleb sits slumped in a chair, shirtless, a bloody bandage taped roughly across his ribs. His face is pale beneath fresh bruises, a deep gash slicing over his eyebrow.
He sees me, and immediately tries to straighten.
“Stay seated,” I say quietly. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
He swallows hard, wincing as he shifts his weight. “We got here right on time. Sergei checked perimeter—said all clear. Then the door opened, no force, nothing. Like they fucking owned the place.”
“Four men,” I prompt. “Masks. Professional gear.”
