Page 64 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“Every time Mila contacted Sasha, the signal pinged from her phone to nearby cell towers. If the carriers logged her IMEI number, I can access tower logs through a backdoor into their raw traffic data. Get a location history before she dumped the phone.”
Trev’s jaw tightened. “That’s illegal.”
Drew shot him a look that could cut glass. “So is torture. Your point?”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken arguments about morality and necessity. But this wasn’t a philosophy class, and Sasha didn’t have time for us to debate ethics.
“Do it,” I said.
Drew’s fingers resumed their dance across the keyboard, code and data streaming across the screen faster than I could follow. Minutes passed like hours, each second another moment Sasha spent in whatever hell Petro had created for her.
“Got something,” Drew announced, his voice tight with concentration. “One odd ping. Didn’t originate from Chicago.”
A new red dot appeared on the map, isolated in what looked like the middle of nowhere, southwest of Joliet. Drew zoomed in, satellite imagery resolving into aerial shots of dense woodland broken by a single structure.
“Half-burnt church,” he said, highlighting the building. “Used to be a Roman Catholic mission. Abandoned for the past fifteen years.”
My blood ran cold. A church. Of course, Petro would choose a church. In his twisted mind, he wasn’t just a criminal—he was a holy warrior, and every murder was a sacrament.
“Perfect place to keep a hostage,” Maxim observed grimly. “Isolated, defensible, and psychologically significant for someone who thinks he’s doing God’s work.”
The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. Petro hasn’t just been teaching Mila to kill—he’s been indoctrinating her into his particular brand of religious fanaticism. Every death in the name of Saint Michael, every prayer whispered over spilled blood.
“What about Mila?” Drew asked, nodding toward the interrogation room where our prisoner continued her endless chanting.
Trev’s face hardened into something that would make our father proud. “Let her keep praying. She’s going to need it.”
The plan formed quickly, efficiently. Drew would coordinate surveillance and technical support. Maxim would handle logistics and backup. Trev and I would go in first, hard and fast, before Petro could react to Mila’s capture.
But as we prepared to leave, as weapons were checked and routes planned, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were walking into something larger than a simple rescue operation. Petro wasn’t just holding Sasha as leverage—he was making a statement. Proving that he could reach into our lives, take the people we cared about, and force us to dance to his tune.
The church wasn’t just a hiding place. It was a trap.
And we were going to walk right into it because the alternative—leaving Sasha to whatever horrors Petro had planned—wasn’t an option.
“How do you want to play this?” Trev asked as we geared up.
I thought about Anya, about the child growing inside her, about the future we were trying to build from the ashes of our violent past. I thought about Sasha, sweet and loyal and completely innocent of the sins that marked the rest of us.
“Hard and fast,” I decided. “No negotiation, no mercy. We get Sasha, and we end this.”
Because some wars didn’t end with treaties or ceasefires. Some wars only ended when one side stopped breathing.
And I was done being on the defensive.
It was time to remind Petro Kozak exactly what happened when you threatened an Antonov’s family.
Chapter 22 – Anya
Rain whipped through the broken, stained-glass windows as our SUV pulled up to what looked like the remains of something holy turned profane. The ruins of the old church stood like a corpse on sacred ground, its steeple half-collapsed and reaching toward heaven with broken fingers. Gothic arches framed empty spaces where windows once filtered colored light into the sanctuary, now letting in nothing but darkness and the smell of decay.
The sight made something cold settle in my stomach. This wasn’t just abandoned—it had been deliberately desecrated, turned into something that mocked what it used to represent.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Lev said for the third time since we’d left the city, his voice tight with the kind of control that meant he was barely holding back from physically restraining me.
I turned to face him in the backseat, rain streaking down the bulletproof glass behind his head like tears the sky refused to stop crying. “I’m not going anywhere until I see Sasha.”
His jaw worked, muscles jumping under skin that was still pale from his recent hospital stay. “Anya, if something goes wrong—”
