Page 4 of The Enforcer's Vow
I'll need answers of my own.
2
MAKSIM
The call comes at seven in the morning, dragging me from sleep with the buzz of my phone against the nightstand. Rolan’s name glows on the screen.
"Maksim," he says the moment I answer. "Get dressed. Headquarters. One hour."
"What happened?"
"If it could wait, I wouldn’t be calling."
He hangs up without another word. No explanation, no detail—just the expectation that I’ll follow orders, the same way I have for years.
I drag myself out of bed and move through my routine. Shower. Shave. Black suit, clean shirt—the uniform. I finish dressing and check the line of my collar with a flick of my fingers. My knuckles are still marked from the last job—subtle reminders of what I do and what I am.
Moscow traffic moves in sluggish patterns through the city center, but I arrive at Vetrov headquarters with minutes to spare. The building squats on Tverskaya Street, its façade unremarkable among the mix of businesses and office complexes that line the avenue. Inside, polished marbleand expensive fixtures announce the prosperity of legitimate enterprise. The real business happens on floors that don't appear on public directories.
Vadim meets me at the elevator on the eighth floor. My cousin has held the position of lieutenant for three years, long enough to develop the hard edges that come with managing operations for the family. His handshake is firm, his mind already focused on whatever crisis has prompted this early meeting.
"Rolan's waiting," he says, leading me down the hallway toward the conference room. "We have a problem."
The conference room overlooks the street below, its windows tinted to prevent observation from outside. Rolan sits at the head of the polished table, his attention focused on a laptop screen that displays what appears to be security footage. He looks up when we enter with inky eyes that betray his simmering rage.
"Sit." He gestures to the chairs across from him. "We need to discuss last night's incident at the track."
I take the indicated seat and wait. Years of working for the family have taught me to listen first, speak only when directly questioned, and never volunteer information that hasn't been requested.
"Alexei is dead." Rolan's voice remains flat and emotionless. "Overdose from tainted cocaine. The preliminary investigation suggests the drugs were cut with fentanyl."
Alexei is our cousin by marriage. I knew him—not well, but well enough. We saw each other at gatherings, shared drinks a few times, exchanged the kind of conversations that mean nothing until someone ends up dead. He worked collections in Butyrka and he was steady, competent. Not the type to overdose, and definitely not the type to mix his own supply. His deathisn’t just inconvenient for Rolan. It’s personal enough to warrant attention and professional enough to demand action.
"Accident?" I ask.
"Intentional." Vadim slides a folder across the table. "The cocaine was specifically targeted. Someone wanted Alexei dead, or they wanted to send a message through his death."
I open the folder and scan the preliminary reports. Crime scene photographs show his body near the track entrance, surrounded by paramedics and police equipment. Witness statements describe convulsions, foaming at the mouth, the rapid onset of symptoms that indicate poisoning rather than typical overdose.
"Who supplied the drugs?"
"Damir Mirov..." Rolan turns the laptop screen toward me as his eyes darken from inky to jet-black with rage. "Small-time dealer who operates at the track. Sells to patrons, keeps a low profile, generally stays out of family business."
The security footage shows a man in his early thirties, dark hair, lean build, moving through the track's betting area with casual confidence. He's familiar with the environment. He interacts with various customers, exchanges money for small packages, conducts transactions with tact. Not new to this game.
"You think he's the bullet or the weapon?"
"Both possibilities are under consideration." Rolan closes the laptop. "But our immediate concern is containment. Mirov disappeared after Alexei's death. We need to locate him and determine whether this was assassination or setup."
"What's my role?" I straighten, squaring my shoulders and looking down at my oldest brother, but it's my cousin who speaks up.
Vadim leans forward. "Mirov has a sister—Zoya Mirova. She works at the track, betting window twelve. We need to knowwhat she knows about her brother's business and whether she can lead us to him."
The assignment takes shape in my mind. Surveillance, evaluation, potential interrogation. Standard procedure for gathering information about suspects and their associates.
"Direct approach or observation?"
"Your choice, but keep it quiet. No official family involvement until we understand the full scope of the situation." Rolan's eyes meet mine across the table. "If Mirov is planning additional attacks, his sister may be the key to stopping them. If he's been set up by competitors, she may be the path to identifying the real threat. And we can't spook him, which means we can't scare her."
