Page 49 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“Good.” He seems genuinely relieved as he walks toward me, hand extended.
I shake his offered hand, noting the firmness of his grip and how his gaze quickly assesses my men before returning to meet mine. “We need to present a united front. The Federoffs are counting on division between our families.”
“They’ll be disappointed.” He moves to the head of the conference table, where papers and photographs are spread in organized rows. “I’ve compiled everything we know about Avgar’s operations, including financial records, property holdings, and known associates.”
I gesture to Viktor, who removes a thick folder from his briefcase and lays it on the table too. “So have we.”
“Good. Maybe our information will fill in the gaps and overlap.” Claude sits down.
Zita takes the chair to her father’s right, her posture straight and alert despite the emotional toll of recent events. She’s wearing a navy blue dress that projects competence and authority, probably chosen to remind everyone in the room that she’s not just Tigran Belsky’s wife, or Claude Lo Duca’s daughter, but an intelligent strategist in her own right.
“The restaurant attack was more sophisticated than anything we’ve seen from the Federoffs before,” I say, settling into the chair across from Claude. “Someone provided them with military-grade training and equipment.”
“The Sarkov Bratva from Detroit,” Claude says, sliding a photograph across the table. “Intelligence suggests they’ve been supplying tactical support in exchange for a share of Chicago territory once Avgar eliminates us.”
I study the photograph of three men in expensive suits standing outside a Detroit warehouse, their faces partially obscured by shadows but still recognizable. Alekseev Sarkov and his lieutenants are sharks who’ve been circling Chicago’s criminal enterprises for years.
“They’re overreaching,” Viktor says, leaning forward to examine the intelligence reports. “DetroitBratvatrying to expand into Chicago will bring federal attention they can’t afford.”
“Unless they succeed quickly and quietly,” Dmitri says. “If they can eliminate both our organizations within a matter of weeks, they can present the FBI with afait accompli.”
“Which is exactly why we need to coordinate our response,” Claude says. “Separate, we’re vulnerable. Together, we represent too much firepower for them to handle.”
The next hour passes in detailed tactical planning. Claude’s knowledge of the city’s political landscape proves invaluable. He knows which aldermen can be bought, which police commanders will look the other way, and which judges will ensure that inconvenient evidence disappears from evidence lockers. His decades of careful relationship-building have created a network of influence that complements theBratva’smore direct methods.
“The Federoff safe house on the South Side,” Zita says, pointing to a location marked on one of the maps. “Must be where they’re staging their operations. Take that out, and you eliminate their command structure.”
Both Claude and I turn to look at her, surprised by her input. She’s been listening quietly for the past hour, absorbing information without comment.
“How do you know about the safe house?” I ask.
“It’s a matter of triangulation and deduction. That might not be the exact location of their safe house, but it’s the epicenter of all their smaller attacks on our business interests.attacks on our business interests..
“That’s actionable intelligence,” Claude says approvingly. “We can surveille to learn where the safe house is by searching for known associates. Once we identify it, we can coordinate simultaneous strikes on the safe house and their financial operations.”
“Assuming we can trust our own people long enough to execute the plan,” I say with a hint of bitterness. “The Federoffs have already demonstrated their ability to turn our personnel. We’ve rooted out one spy, but there could be more in the Belsky or the Lo Duca camps.”
“True, so we’ll limit the circle of knowledge,” says Viktor. “Only the people in this room know the full scope of the operation.”
I’m about to respond when the first bullet shatters the conference room’s north window.
The glass explodes inward in a shower of crystalline fragments, and I throw myself across the table toward Zita as more shots tear through the remaining windows. I realize it’s sniper fire from the building across the street and multiple shooters coordinating their attack together.
“Get down,” I shout, pushing Zita beneath the heavy oak conference table as bullets chew through expensive leather chairs and embed themselves in the far wall.
Through my earpiece, I hear Viktor calling for backup while Dmitri returns fire through the shattered windows, though his odds of hitting any of the snipers with his Desert Eagle are slim.
The sniper attack is just the beginning. The rapid staccato of automatic gunfire grows closer from the floors below. The choice of submachine guns reveals this is a full-scale assault on the building.
“They’re coming up the stairwells,” Claude says, speaking into his own radio. “East and west sides, at least twelve men per team, per my security manager.”
He moves to his desk with surprising speed for a man in his fifties, yanking open a locked drawer to retrieve a nickel-plated.45 that looks like it’s seen significant use. Whatever else Claude Lo Duca might be, he’s not a man who expects others to do his fighting for him.
“How did they know?” Zita demands, crawling toward her father’s position behind the desk. “How did they know exactly when and where we’d be meeting?”
“The same way they knew about the restaurant,” I say grimly, ejecting the magazine from my Glock to check my ammunition. “Someone told them. Maria wasn’t the only leak.”
This isn’t just another leak in our security though. With the delay in their arrival, and how secretive we were about the details of this meeting, I suspect someone is feeding real-time intelligence to our enemies. Someone with access to our most sensitive planning is actively working to get us killed.
