Page 29 of Vengeful Embers

The Dragunov Guard was my ancestors’ elite protectors. When my great-grandfather was captured, the guard was disbanded, hunted, forcefully absorbed into the Russian military, or killed outright. I see General Morozov has taken the liberty to recreate it.

Lev. The name sits heavy as he steps back, retrieves his weapon, and nods to the general.

“You can leave us,” Morozov says. “I have sensitive matters to discuss with Elder Dragunov.”

The title hangs in the air.

Lev doesn’t argue. Just gives me a final look of warning before slipping out and shutting the door.

We’re alone now. The hum of the lights above us is the only sound.

The general takes a seat across from me and lays a folder on the table.

“So the legends are true,” I say. “The great General Morozov instills such deep loyalty in his team that they would lay down their lives for him on command.”

“I’ve long since learned that loyalty goes both ways,” the general informs me. “To earn it, like trust, you have to give it.”

“Thank you for the lesson, general.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “Always a thrill to get some words of wisdom from the great General Morozov.” I lift a brow. “But you do know that the Dragunov Guard is meant to serve The Dragunov?”

“And when a new Dragunov arises,” the general tells me, “I will gladly send my men to protect him.” He leans back and looks at me with that look that says he knows something I don’t.

“No, thank you, I would rather have men loyal to me,” I decline his offer. “Not some private security that serves most of Russia’s elite and powerful, as well as other parts of the world. I want the real Dragunov Guard, not D-Fire Private Security.”

“They are the Dragunov Guard,” General Morozov tells me. “Your grandfather and I started recreating the guard after the raid of the Dragunov Village by the Golden Hydra.”

My heart lurches, my gut clenches, and I force away the memories that want to spring to light in my head when he mentions that fateful raid on my village fifteen years ago.

“My grandfather never mentioned it to me,” I tell him in disbelief.

“Why would he?” the general counters. “You wouldn’t have listened as you were grieving and consumed with rage and revenge.”

“The Mirochins used the village like a prized toy a scorned member of the Mirochins family tried to take away from the head of the family,” I seethe at the memory. “They use my people as pawns, cheap labor, and keep us in line through fear of things like that happening.” My eyes narrow angrily. “I will not let that happen again.”

“Neither will I,” the general announces. “That is why D-Fire private security is now securely positioned as Russia’s top security firm. It’s not just government officials and the elite who use the service. It’s crime families, including the Mirochins.”

That does get my attention. “My grandfather knew about this and didn’t tell me?”

“He was going to when he thought you were ready,” the general tells me. “And before he died, he made me promise to continue the tradition of my ancestors to protect the Dragunov Territory and the Dragunovs. Like my family has had as the head of the Dragunov Guard for generations.”

“I thought that tie had been severed when you became such a decorated and revered General in the Russian Army,” I point out.

“The first Morozov to serve Damien Dragunov, your great-great-grandfather and the man who built the Dragunov Legacy from the shattered remains of the ruined Russian Royals, also served in the military,” the general reminds me. “I didn’t bring you here for a history lesson. I brought you here to hear you out because you had questions.”

“I already asked it. Before your little power play.”

He doesn’t blink. Just sits, patient and calm, like he’s got all the time in the world.

I lean forward. “I know Lidiya Zorin is alive. Or should I say—Lidiya Ergorov. General Ergorov’s first wife. She was supposed to be dead, wasn’t she? But there she is, hiding behind a nurse’s uniform, playing caretaker to her grandmother, Ofeliya Zorin.”

The General’s face doesn’t change, but I see the slightest shift in his posture. Tension in his shoulders.

“I also know Leonid Zorin faked his own death and started over in America with a new family.”

No denial. No confirmation. Nothing.

“But what I don’t understand is why he would take your granddaughter with him?” I continue. “Unless… she was valuable. Like her grandmother. A prodigy?”

Still no reaction.

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