Page 21 of Crimson Curse
My jaw locks as I shove back from the desk hard enough to make the chair slam into the wall behind me. The impact sends a framed photograph trembling on its mount, a picture of my mother in her prime, her steel-gray eyes staring down at me with the same cold assessment she used to evaluate potential threats. Even in death, Galina Zorin demands results, not excuses.
“Off the map,” Lex continues, his voice maintaining that same deadly calm. “No radio distress. No detour pings. The transponders all gave me the same thing. Then they gave me nothing.”
The technical impossibility of what he is describing settles over me like ice water. Modern vehicles do not simply vanish. Electronic signatures cannot be erased without sophisticated jamming equipment or inside knowledge of our security protocols. Either we are dealing with opponents who possess military-grade technology, or we have been betrayed by someone with access to our operational details.
I take a deep breath and release it slowly, feeling the air fill my lungs and then escape like hope abandoning a dying man. The oxygen tastes stale, recycled through climate control systems that cost more than luxury cars. Everything in this room, in this house, and in my entire empire represents control. Yet control is an illusion when your enemies possess the same resources and twice the desperation.
I study the map in detail, analyzing routes and timing. The convoy's path cuts north from Kenosha County like an artery, then angles west toward a warehouse we keep scrubbed and respectable under a flooring company that has never sold a single plank of wood. The front business maintains perfect tax records and employs actors who show up for work every day to keep the illusion. There should be digital breadcrumbs scattered along the entire route. Security cameras at gas stations. Cell tower pings. Credit card transactions. The modern world makes invisibility nearly impossible for anyone lacking the resources to purchase it.
But there are none of these expected traces. “This isn't a mistake,” I declare. “It reeks of intent.”
Every detail of this operation screams deliberate planning. The timing coincides with known vulnerabilities in our security rotation. The route was compromised despite being shared with only our most trusted personnel. The electronic countermeasures employed require resources that Viktor cannot access on his own. This is not the work of an angry cousin acting on impulse. This is warfare conducted by professionals who understand both our capabilities and our weaknesses.
Lex nods once. “I agree.”
His confirmation settles the matter in my mind. Lex possesses instincts honed by years of combat in environments where the difference between accurate assessment and wishful thinking is measured in body counts. When he agrees with my tactical evaluation, it becomes fact rather than theory.
“Viktor?” I pose the question while already knowing it represents only part of a larger puzzle.
“It's his style, possibly.” Lex pauses for a fraction of a breath, the hesitation revealing deeper concerns. “But if I had to make a professional assessment, I would say this bears Lucien's signature.”
The name looms between us like the scent of gunpowder after a firefight. “Any concrete proof,” I inquire, “or just professional intuition.”
“Signals,” Lex replies, his fingers dancing across the tablet screen to bring up financial tracking data. “Movements that are almost invisible until you examine the patterns. Cash withdrawals in small denominations under four different corporate fronts that all tie back to an interior decorator based in Miami. That decorator sits on the board of directors with a French logistics fund. The fund absorbed a boutique art courier last quarter through what appeared to be a routine acquisition. That courier maintains a leased hangar outside Milwaukee that just renewed its security clearances for four operatives who do not exist on any other grid we can access.”
The web of connections spreads across the screen like a spider's work, each thread seemingly innocent until viewed as part of the larger pattern. This is how modern criminal enterprises operate, buried beneath layers of legitimate business transactions and legal documentation that would take forensicaccountants months to unravel. Every company owns a piece of another company, every transaction has multiple purposes, and every paper trail leads through a dozen jurisdictions before disappearing into offshore accounts.
Lex continues his briefing. “I conducted enhanced surveillance and pulled security stills from multiple locations. One of the individuals walks with a distinctive gait that matches our files on Marseille.”
Marseille is Lucien's personal executioner, a tall man whose left knee gives out when he thinks he is alone. The limp is barely noticeable, pride covering pain from an old injury that he refuses to acknowledge. He killed a teenage courier for smiling at the wrong time and called it discipline, then sent the boy's mother a bouquet with his condolences. The gesture was not kindness but psychological warfare, a reminder that even grief occurs at Lucien's discretion.
“Show me,” I demand.
Lex manipulates the tablet, and a grainy surveillance image fills the screen. A figure in a baseball cap stands near a service entrance, his face partially obscured but his posture unmistakable. That subtle dip in the left knee is as clear to me as a fingerprint, a physical signature that cannot be falsified or disguised. The timestamp places him in Milwaukee exactly when our convoy vanished, too perfect to be coincidental and too sloppy to be accidental.
It's not the kind of proof that would satisfy a courtroom, but it’s more than sufficient for my purposes. In my world, we convict on probability and execute on suspicion, because waiting for absolute certainty usually results in attending your own funeral.
“Viktor disappears. My shipment disappears. Marseille appears,” I recite slowly, allowing each fact to settle into place like pieces of a puzzle that form a picture I do not want to see. “This is not a coincidence.”
Lex remains silent, his features impassive, while his mind processes the same tactical implications that are crystallizing in my own thoughts. He knows I’m working through the possibilities, exploring each potential scenario and its likely outcomes.
“Viktor hides behind Lucien's organizational structure,” I continue, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. “He believes borrowed silence is more effective than making noise. He wants to maneuver while everyone watches the wrong side of the city.”
The strategy makes perfect sense from Viktor's perspective. My cousin has always been intelligent enough to recognize his own limitations, even if his pride prevents him from acknowledging them publicly. He lacks the resources to challenge me directly, but he possesses enough cunning to recognize opportunity when more powerful players enter the game. By aligning himself with Lucien, he gains access to European networks and decades of institutional knowledge about eliminating established crime families.
“Or he is already under Lucien's direct control,” Lex adds quietly, “and lacks the awareness to realize it.”
Both possibilities are equally troubling for different reasons. Viktor, as a willing partner, represents a known quantity, driven by predictable motivations and familiar patterns of behavior. Viktor, as an unwitting pawn, becomes infinitely more dangerous because his actions will be guided by strategicintelligence he does not possess and serving purposes he cannot comprehend.
My cousin's pride would send him headfirst into a mirror just to ensure his own reflection moved out of his way. He believes his hunger for power makes him clever, but hunger makes men sloppy. Desperation leads to mistakes, and mistakes create opportunities for those patient enough to exploit them. Lucien has spent his entire career turning other people's desperation into personal advantage.
“They intercepted the shipment to measure our reaction time, test our surveillance capabilities, and determine how quickly I favor immediate violence over strategic patience,” I conclude.
The theft serves multiple purposes beyond the obvious financial benefit. It provides them with high-grade weapons while simultaneously probing our security protocols. Our response will reveal information about our resources, our decision-making processes, and our tactical priorities. Every move we make from this point forward will be analyzed and factored into their larger operational plan.
“And to determine if you will sacrifice personnel for personal pride,” Lex adds, his observation cutting directly to the heart of the matter.
This is the trap within the trap, the psychological warfare designed to force me into making emotional decisions that serve their strategic interests. They want me angry. They want me to be reckless. They want me to commit resources to recovering stolen property while leaving more valuable assets vulnerable to their primary assault.
