Page 99 of Unspoken

Stan nods, understanding in his eyes. "I'll do some digging. See what I can find out about Shtyk's whereabouts or Toro’s guys. I'll be in touch."

"Thanks, brother. I appreciate it."

We clink our bottles together and take one last sip. Then a few minutes later, Stan is gone, disappearing into the jaws of the city, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the taste of regret on my tongue.

I sit there for a long time, staring into the depths of what's left of my beer as if it holds the answers I'm looking for. But there are no easy solutions, no clear-cut paths to follow. There'sonly the road ahead, winding and risky, leading me deeper into the heart of darkness with every step.

Three days. Seventy-two fucking hours since Sasha vanished, and the walls of Vlad's basement feel like they're closing in on me. The glow of the computer screen sears my eyes as I scroll through the cesspool of the dark web along with Andrey, desperate for a lead, a whisper, anything that might point us in the right direction.

Stan’s been quiet too. A quick phone call earlier today only confirmed my biggest fears—Shtyk and Toro with his men have gone underground.

Something’s brewing.

Something big.

Vlad paces behind us, his presence a suffocating mass in the air. I can feel his gaze boring into the back of my skull. He keeps the information about Sasha and me to himself. The photos are safely hidden away from his crew. The only person who’s aware is Ivan. The rest are oblivious to what’s really going on and why Vlad’s attention keeps coming back to me.

The ring of one of Vlad's many phones shatters the silence, and I feel my muscles lock with dreadful anticipation. He snatches it up, his voice a dangerous growl. "Talk."

The room falls into stillness as everyone freezes.

I strain to hear the voice on the other end, but the words are lost to me. Vlad's face remains an impassive mask, but I see the hint of something in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Or perhaps just the cold, calculated fury of a man who's used to getting what he wants.

He ends the call with a curt "I’ll handle it," and turns to face the room. "We've got a lead. An abandoned industrial park near Moapa Valley. That's where they're holed up."

The new information is like a live grenade, and for a moment, no one dares to breathe. Then, the basement erupts into a flurry of activity. Ivan barks orders at the men, his voice a harsh staccato of broken English sentences and some Russian against the clatter of weapons being checked and magazines loaded.

A thought rushes through my mind–call Stan to double-check if the intel is true. But before I can act on it Ivan approaches me and all my attention is on him.

"Here." He shoves me a Glock and a holster. "You will need this."

Moments later, I feel Vlad's hand on my shoulder, his grip a vise. "You are with me and Ivan, McKenna. We are going to get Alexander back, and God help anyone who stands in our way."

I nod, my throat tight. The weight of the Glock is a familiar comfort against my palm as I slide it into place.

My heart’s pounding in my ears as I follow Vlad and his entourage out of the basement.

The mansion is a hive of activity, men swarming like angry bees as they gather their gear and load up the SUVs parked in the driveway.

"Wear this," Ivan calls out, handing me a Kevlar vest. "We move fast and quiet, hit them before they know what is coming."

I catch the vest, strapping it on with practiced efficiency. Vlad is already sliding into the back seat, his face a grim mask of determination. He motions for me to sit next to him.

"Ready?" he asks, his rage-filled eyes meet mine for a second.

"Always," I reply, my own anger simmering just beneath the surface of my skin, hot and useful.

It's not just about Sasha anymore. It's about the betrayal and the lies that have led us to this moment. And the knowledge that, no matter how this ends, there will be blood on our hands.

The SUVs roar to life, and we peel out of the driveway, one by one, tearing through the night like the hounds of hell are on our heels.

We leave the city behind, entering the domain of the desert where dust and cacti are our only companions on the way to the place where we’re not certain what awaits us. From time to time, Vlad would take a call. He’d say something in Russian and return to being his brooding self.

Ivan’s quiet behind the wheel. The man occupying a passenger’s seat beside him, whose name I don’t know, is familiar. I’ve seen him around the house. I’m not sure he speaks English. I’m also not sure he needs to. Violence is a universal language. Everyone understands it.

Under the cover of darkness, our vehicle skids to a stop on the unassuming gravel road that leads to an isolated industrial park, located in the middle of nowhere.

I grip my Glock tighter, trying to calm my pulse.

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