Page 86 of Silken Chains
As we edge closer to the warehouse, that initial thrill starts to mix with a gnawing suspicion. Something’s not right. The place is too quiet; the usual signs of guard shifts, the low murmur of voices, the scuff of boots on gravel—all missing. It’s like the world’s holding its breath, waiting for something to snap.
“Why are there no men by the warehouse?” I murmur to Misha, my voice a whisper against the cold night air.
He shrugs, eyes scanning the darkness. “Maybe Ivan’s got them all inside? Or…”
“Or it’s a trap,” I finish for him, the words tasting like bile in my throat. My hand instinctively tightens around my gun, the metal cold and reassuring against my skin.
We pause, reassessing. My men look to me, waiting for a decision. Every instinct screams that we’re walking into a setup, yet turning back isn’t an option. Not when we’re this close.
“Spread out. Quietly,” I order, my voice low but firm. “Check the perimeter. Something’s off.”
As they fan out, I take a moment to center myself. The lack of guards could mean a number of things—overconfidence on Vasiliev’s part, a strategic move to draw us in, or simply a change in tactics. None of which bode well for us.
The silence is oppressive, the only sound the soft lapping of water against the dock and the distant call of a night bird. It’s unnatural, this quiet, as if even the river knows to tread lightly tonight.
I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched, that Ivan’s somewhere out there, smirking in the shadows. “Played us like a damn fiddle, hasn’t he?” I mutter under my breath, a flash of anger cutting through the unease.
Misha, his face grim under the dim light, shakes his head. “No one. It’s like they vanished into thin air.”
Vanished or waiting—the thought gnaws at me. Out here, every moment we’re not moving, we’re vulnerable.
“Inside, then,” I command, voice low. “But stay sharp.”
Ignoring the knot in my stomach, we press forward. The warehouse door looms before us, open just a crack—a silent invitation or a taunt?
“Boss,” Misha’s hand on my arm halts me, “let’s retreat; this doesn’t look right.”
I pause. “Fuck.” My eyes scan the dark interior, then dart upwards. “Move out now,” I snap, but it’s too late.
Shadows detach from the rooftop, forms becoming clear. An ambush.
Gunfire erupts, a chaotic symphony of shouts and screams, the air punctuated with staccato bursts of Russian curses.
“Pizdets!” one of my men yells as bullets fly.
“Suka!” We’ve been played.
Chapter 32
Victor
CHAOS REIGNS as bullets rip through the night. We’re sitting ducks, caught in the open with nowhere to run. Misha’s beside me, firing back with a snarl on his face.
“We need to get the fuck out of here!” he yells.
I nod, my heart pounding in my chest.
Fuck! This was supposed to be a simple takedown, but Ivan’s outplayed us.
“Ari!” I shout over the gunfire. “Cover us!”
Ari, the giant, grunts in response, his massive frame shielding us as he returns fire.
“Mudak!” he curses, his voice booming over the chaos. “I’ll make them pay for this!”
“Pizdets!” I turn to look at Igor, who’s pinned down behind a crate, blood seeping from a wound in his shoulder. “Boss, we’re outnumbered!”
He’s right. We’re outnumbered and outgunned. I signal to Misha, and he nods, understanding without words.
