Page 18 of Dirty Damage

Two shadows. Moving with purpose.

Toopurposeful.

They’re hunched near the entrance to dry dock six, one working at the padlock while the other keeps watch.

My blood goes from cool to boiling in the span of a heartbeat.

I step silently across the concrete, years of training taking over. It’s child’s play to sneak up on them from behind.

The lookout spots me too late—his eyes widen just as my fist connects with his jaw. Something cracks. Several somethings, actually.

Then he crumples, legs folding like wet cardboard.

His partner spins, a blade flashing in the security lights. Amateur.

I grab his wrist, twist until the knife clatters to the ground, then drive my knee into his solar plexus. The air leaves his lungs in a wheezy gasp.

“Who sent you?” I growl, twisting his arm behind his back.

He whimpers something unintelligible. Pathetic.

I drag him by his collar toward the security booth, leaving his unconscious friend face-down on the pavement. The guard on duty—Sidorov—jumps to attention when he sees me coming.

“Mr. Pavlov! I was just?—”

“Sleeping?” I suggest, my voice dropping to a dangerous snarl. “Jerking off? Because you sure as fuck weren’t watching the monitors.”

Sidorov’s face drains of color. He stammers excuses I don’t bother processing as I shove my captive into a chair.

“Two men breaking into dry dock six,” I say, each word precise as a scalpel. “Where we’re keeping the prototype. And you. Didn’t. Notice.”

The guard’s Adam’s apple bobs frantically.

“Check the yard,” I order. “His friend’s taking a nap by the northeast entrance. And call the police. After you’re done with that, clean out your locker and get the fuck off my property.”

I pull out my phone and dial as Sidorov scrambles to follow orders.

“Artem,” I bark at my best friend when he picks up on the first ring, “we have a problem at the boatyard. Two uninvited guests. I need you to find out who they work for.”

The thief in the chair whimpers again as blood trickles from his split lip.

“On it,” is all Artem says.

I end the call and stare down at the poor bastard caught in my crosshairs. “You picked the wrong fucking yard to rob.”

Then I get to work on him.

I drive home with my knuckles still throbbing. Blood—none of it mine—dries under my fingernails. The speedometer creeps past ninety as I carve through the night in my Porsche.

The two would-be thieves didn’t have much to tell me after all, but Artem will get answers.

He always does.

The adrenaline keeps my mind sharp. By the time I pull into my driveway, I’ve outlined a battle plan for the next six months: secure independent funding for the cloaking system; restructure the development team; lock down a pipeline for military contracts.

Uncle Boris can sip champagne onThe Anastasiawhile I build an empire.

Morning finds me showered and suited, striding into Pavlov headquarters at 7:15. My executive assistant, Irina, materializes at my side with coffee and a look that makes me pause mid-step.

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