Page 93 of His Forced Bride
At the compound, I leave her with Rosa, who leads her to the bathroom to clean up, and I gather my team in the den.
Oleg, Kirill, Alexei, and five others—men who understand that tonight's work requires absolute thoroughness.
They stand in a semicircle ready to take orders, and I am so filled with vengeance and rage, I can barely utter the words.
"Full tactical gear," I tell them.
"Suppressed weapons, body armor. We go in hard and leave nothing breathing." Kozlov isn't going to survive this.
If I find him, I will bleed him dry one drop at a time, and if I don't, I'll send a message so clear, he won't be able to pretend he hasn't been warned.
Kirill checks his rifle scope against the far wall, its red bead centered on the map over St. Petersburg.
"Intel on the target?"
"It's an industrial warehouse, three stories tall. There's minimal security after midnight. Kozlov keeps a small crew for night operations."
I'm busy too, loading my guns, making sure each one is ready with a bullet chambered.
"Exit strategy?" Oleg asks.
His hands grip the straps of his Kevlar vest and his chin juts out.
He's hungry for this too.
If I weren't so angry, I'd think it mildly endearing that my men are going to war for my wife.
"Burn it down. No evidence, no witnesses."
We dress in black and check our weapons one last time before heading out.
Each man knows his role and understands the stakes. Kozlov crossed a line today that demanded this response.
The warehouse sits in a district where legitimate businesses close at sunset but illegitimate work thrives in the darkness.
We approach from the east, using adjacent buildings for cover.
The perimeter fence is chain link with minimal lighting—amateur security that won't delay us more than minutes.
Oleg cuts through the fence while Kirill positions himself on a neighboring rooftop.
The first guard dies with a suppressed round to the head before he can reach for his radio.
Alexei takes the second with a knife to the throat, dragging the body into shadows, but as I walk past, I can still make out the distinct kidney shape blooming in thick liquid that reflects the moonlight overhead.
Inside, the warehouse is chocked-full of Kozlov's inventory on the ground floor—assault rifles, explosives, military hardware with no legitimate civilian purpose.
We find his men on the second floor, six of them playing cards and drinking vodka while an old radio plays American rock and roll over a din of static.
They die quickly, suppressed gunfire cutting them down before they know what hits them.
The third floor serves as Kozlov's office and living quarters.
We climb the stairs with our weapons raised, expecting resistance that doesn't come.
It seems too easy, as if we're being set up.
My men are on edge, clearing every room, though they're empty.
