Page 63 of Vasily the Hammer

“We go to a Russian Orthodox church in Florida?” I ask, but it makes sense. It felt right when Vasily took me there.

“Yep. You don’t understand any of it, and it makes me laugh when you mess up, but Uncle D comes with us sometimes to help you.”

“Who’s Uncle D?” I ask. I guess another churchgoer who took us under his wing?

Artom shrugs. “I don’t know. If Uncle Tony’s your brother, wouldn’t Uncle D be Daddy’s brother?”

Vasily only ever had the one brother, Artyom, Artom’s namesake, but I’ve gotten enough information for now.

Enough information to keep me as confused as ever.

Chapter 20

Vasily

“You sure thisis the place?” Vlad murmurs as he kills the lights and pulls into a parking lot a block over from the address Kostya got us. He cruises through the office park slowly, pulling off and behind a dumpster when a security cart putters by, continuing on the back lot we found using Google’s satellite view.

Kostya points to the warehouse sitting low directly across the street from us. “That’s where the tracker goes. Good thing they nabbed that crate of ammo.”

Never thought I’d agree with that, but it’s true. We still do some trafficking for others, and I guess there was a trust issue between a seller and their buyer, so the seller attached a tracker to the crate to prove it arrived to the right place if the buyer claimedotherwise. Ironic that it was a crate that got stolen, lucky that Janson reached out to inform them of the theft.

The place is quiet, lights off as far as we can see, but there are a couple more cars in the parking lot than I’d expect after hours.

“Looks right to me,” Janson murmurs just as softly as a second black vehicle comes to a stop a row back and several spots away from us. Reinforcements. There isn’t much for Bratva left in Flagstaff— the fact that Flagstaff is mine should have been enough— but there’s enough money on the line that we were able to recruit warm bodies from Vegas.

One of their guys gets out and drops to the pavement with his gun out, scope attached. A moment later, my earpiece beeps softly. In Russian, the sharpshooter says, “Lights on in a back room. Door closed. No bodies visible.”

Janson sighs heavily. I translate for him and then chastise the guy on the ground for being a dick. Janson is one of my most valuable assets right now. I don’t need him out of the loop because of a pissing contest.

Janson hops out and flips the lookout off but puts his faith in him as he shimmies down the hill in his dark camo tactical gear. We all hold our breath for him as he runs across the street, as open as he’ll be in this, but then he makes it across the street and pins himself to the building. In a blink of the eye, he vanishes.

The entire time, we hear him breathing softly through his live mic, but not a single footstep is heard. I think I hear the crunch of a leaf, but I might imagine it.

We give him time to do his thing, and then he finally says, “Eleven men. Kevlar. Armed. Five playing poker. Men on either side of front door, one each at northwest and southeast corners of back room, one outside back door. One in thecan.”

“Clear shot to back door?”

“Mmm?” he hums for a moment before there’s a pop no louder than one of little firecrackers they give kids on Fourth of July that look like sperm and snap when you throw them at each other. Then he says, “Ten men.”

Several chuckles come through the earpiece.

I give out assignments for everyone, unwilling to risk Janson with anything interior. We’ve designed some incredibly effective silencers for our ghost guns, but even that small pop was enough to startle a few nearby birds out of trees. My plan is sound, confirmed by both Janson and the sharpshooter, Mikhail. He’s theavtoritetin Vegas, and I agreed that, as technically the highest ranking below me, he could stay here and coordinate. Kostya tried to argue that it’s my safety of the utmost importance, but no, Mikhail is doing us a favor and I need some blood on my hands.

Everyone heads down in the order I dictated, taking their positions at the back and then the front. I’m the last down, leaving only Mikhail up top. Once I’m tucked in next to the meticulously pruned hedge by the side window, Mikhail reminds us the vested Blazing Hell boy needs to be taken alive, then tells us to go.

We all move at once. I smash the window with a brick, and Vlad’s gun is already through it before the brick hits the floor. Gentle pops ring through the earpiece while Vlad’s gun echoes in surround sound. Much louder guns from inside go off, and Vlad drops in time to miss the bullets that whiz out the window.

Vlad gestures the location of one of the men, and I pop up, spot him, and take him out. Another bullet goes over us, still aiming more toward Vlad, but we know how this works. I help Vlad aim, he pops up and fires, and there’s no response.

We don’t wait around. I follow Vlad around to the back of the building, going in through the same door as the rest of the crew so we don’t have to worry about friendly fire. Anyone who tries to escape through the front will be met by Mikhail.

It’s a warzone inside. We can see dead bodies before we even enter: Janson’s kill, another in the Northeast corner, and one slumped over the poker table. Janson remains outside to cover our backs. Vlad enters in front of me with a spray of bullets to clear the way.

I drop the moment I get through the door, knowing better than to trust that they won’t do something dumb. They know they’re going to die, and that makes men reckless. True to expectations, a bullet zings past me, and I catch a glimpse of the gun it comes from before it drops behind the poker table that’s been upended as a shield.

The gun is black, but its lower register is dark copper. A ghost gun. I saw a spool of that dark copper lying on the floor at the ransacked shop. The gun is one of ours.

I fire two shots right at that damn table as I duck behind a sofa. There’s a groan. Card tables don’t make good shields.

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