Page 56 of Deadly Legacy
The distinctive bulges under tailored jackets revealed the marriage of brutality and business that defined the Matvei operation. The screens showed grainy thermal images of Dmitrii’s properties obtained through connections at the security company.
Nikon’s gaze settled on the boatyard feed, where four figures patrolled with the distinctive swagger of hired thugs rather than trained guards.
Stepan approached, a fresh scar running from his jaw to his collar visible above his crisp black shirt. “Surveillance team found the back entrance Andrey told us about. They’re ready.”
“Andrey better not have fed us shit,” Nikon said, right before his phone buzzed. Reuben.
He opened the message, the ice in his veins thawing slightly at the simple text:
I love you. Come home when it’s done.
A beat later, Stepan held out a radio, its casing worn from years of use. “It’s Grigorii.”
“We have eyes on the warehouse.” Grigorii’s voice rumbled through the static. “Roman’s men are drinking. Playing cards instead of watching monitors. Night shift idiots.”
The channel crackled as Alexei cut in. “My man at City Planning will freeze all properties the moment we’re done.” A pause. “Also, some police captains owe me a few favors—their patrols will be elsewhere for two hours.”
Nikon took the radio, knuckles white against the black casing as he grasped it. “Good. Now everyone in position?” He waited for the chorus of confirmations. “Good. Clean and quiet until we find the target.” His voice dropped lower, a cold promise rather than a command. “And anyone who compromises this operation deals with me personally.”
Stepan handed him a tactical vest. “The men have strict orders regarding Dmitrii.”
“Dmitrii is mine.” Nikon’s voice dropped to a register that brooked no argument, his fingers flexing against the grip of his weapon. “Time to close this chapter.”
Nikon felt his mandatory Russian military service training taking over—the familiar calm before an assault, the way time seemed to slow and sharpen. His muscles remembered the rhythm of coordinated strikes, the precise movements that had kept him alive during his year in the special forces.
He’d learned back then, in the brutal efficiency of Russian military doctrine, that success depended on preparation, timing, and absolute control.
Tonight would be no different.
Metal groaned beneath their feet as Nikon led his team across the neglected dock a little over thirty minutes later. The boatyard smelled of rust and brackish water. Pre-dawn fog clung to the surface of the water, providing natural cover as they slipped between abandoned equipment and deteriorating storage containers.
Nikon’s earpiece crackled. “We’re in position at the warehouse,” Grigorii confirmed.
“Surveillance hub team ready,” another voice reported.
Nikon checked his watch. Four fifty-eight. “On my mark. Three. Two. One. Execute.”
The radio erupted with staccato reports of the breaches. Nikon signaled his team forward. They moved toward a concrete structure half-hidden by overgrown brush and discarded machinery. Two guards patrolled the entrance, their attention divided between cigarettes and smartphones.
Stepan pointed to himself and another man, then to the guards. Nikon nodded once. Both men disappeared into the fog, returning less than a minute later. No shots, no sound.
“Clear,” Stepan whispered.
The reinforced door had a keypad lock. Stepan produced a small electronic device from his pocket. The security expert attached it to the panel, his swift movements betraying years of experience bypassing such obstacles.
“Grigorii here. Roman and his crew are down. Clean operation. No casualties on our side.”
The lock clicked open. Nikon’s hand steadied on his weapon, his breathing slowing to a measured rhythm. For over a year, Dmitrii’s threat had been a shadow across everything he’d built with Reuben. Today, he would make sure that threat vanished.
They slipped inside, weapons ready. The air hit him immediately; stale and metallic, with underlying notes of mildew and electrical equipment.
The corridor stretched ahead, overhead utility lights casting harsh light on concrete walls. Stepan took point, gliding forward, silent as a ghost despite his size. The first two rooms yielded nothing but supply crates.
The radio crackled again. “Surveillance hub secured. Dismantling equipment now before they can wipe anything.”
Suddenly, a distant thud echoed through the corridor. Nikon’s hand shot up, halting the team mid-step. His eyes narrowed, head tilting slightly as he listened. The men froze, guns raised, breathing shallow. Nothing followed. He flicked two fingers forward, the signal clear and immediate.
The third door revealed what they’d been looking for. Screens lined the far wall. It was not the makeshift setup Nikon had expected, but a professional command center. Nikon’s teeth ground together. Each monitor displayed a different feed: Matthew Capital’s entrance, his penthouse building’s lobby, even the private balcony where Reuben often stood in the mornings with his coffee.
