Chapter 27

27

Lyric

M y heart hurts. My throat burns.

I can’t bear to see them down here, looking so helpless in those cuffs. The six agents surrounding them are trained and equipped to kill. How could they just walk into this? What were they thinking?

Instinctively, I place both hands on my belly, trying so hard to keep my composure while Smith revels in this so-called victory.

“Gentlemen, it’s time we settle this,” he says to the guys, while the armed agents take a few steps back to clear the corridor in between holding cells. With the “enemy” cuffed, they have nothing to worry about anyway. It makes me sick to my stomach. The door opens again, and in comes Bowman with a giant smile drawn upon his face. “Ah, the man of the hour,” Smith chuckles as he greets his boss.

“I’m so glad I made it,” Bowman replies. “How are our guests faring?”

“You two make quite the team,” Artur mutters. “One just a little more psycho than the other.”

“We’re entrepreneurs, and intrepid ones at that,” Bowman shoots back, eyeing each of them closely. “You three have been a handful for far too long. But tell me, what gives? We were supposed to meet you elsewhere. Didn’t Smith give you—”

“I gave them the address,” Smith rolls his eyes. It’s the first sign that he is growing tired of Bowman. “They knew where to go.”

“And yet here we are,” Bowman says, nodding slowly. “I see. So, the three of you decided to surprise us?”

Max smiles. “Let’s just say we decided to bring the circus to your doorstep. We’ve had our fun and now it’s time to end this.”

“You’re in no position to play coy with me,” Bowman replies, slightly irritated. “You’ve cost me a lot of time, and a lot of money. And your audacity to fucking kidnap me and hold me hostage hasn’t been forgotten.”

“Had we known you were the one in charge, I would’ve personally blown your brains out,” Ivan says. “You’re a lucky SOB.”

“You win some, you lose some.” Bowman laughs. “But let me tell you something—there’s no bigger losers here tonight than the three of you. How does it feel?”

Artur raises an eyebrow. “I genuinely don’t have the patience for your self-indulging bullshit.”

“How does it feel knowing that all of your work was for nothing?”

“Not really for nothing. Larionov’s dead,” Ivan chimes in.

Bowman gives him a hard look. He wasn’t prepared for that. A muscle twitches in his square jaw, but that’s all the emotion he’s willing to show over the news. “Your organization will move forward without you. The families are all on my side.”

“It’s funny,” Max chuckles softly. “You’ve been covertly working with the underworld for so long and yet to this day, you still don’t seem to understand that you can’t trust anybody. Not really.”

“Bold words for the Bratva’s leadership,” Smith replies. “Given your predicament.”

“Tell me, Max, how does it feel knowing you’re going to leave this world behind,” Bowman adds, taking his gun out, “without ever meeting your child?”

My knees cave. I can barely hold on to the steel bars, the blood draining from my body with each passing second of heavy and confused silence. My breath falters. “No,” I whisper. “Shut up.”

“What did you say?” Max asks, never taking his eyes off Bowman.

But Artur and Ivan are watching me. Quiet. Motionless. Terror grips me tightly by the throat as I try to push through, to keep my chin up.

“Your precious Lyric here is with child,” Bowman says, adopting a dramatic tone. “You didn’t know? She didn’t tell you? Which one of you is the father? Oh, that’s right. It could be any one of you.”

“Oh, God,” I mumble, my face burning as I look down. This is not how I wanted them to find out. This is not how I wanted any of it to happen.

Max looks at me. “Lyric?”

“I was going to tell you,” I manage, shaking like a leaf.

“Are you telling me you kidnapped a pregnant woman?” he asks Bowman. “That you’ve been holding a pregnant woman hostage to get to us?”

“Whatever it takes,” Bowman replies with a shrug. “But tell me. Be honest. How does it feel to lose so much in less than twenty-four hours’ time?”

“You’re delusional,” Max says. “Did you really think we’d come down here just so you can kill us?”

Smith laughs lightly. “We’re prepared for anything, Mr. Sokolov. Granted, we thought we’d handle you at a different address, but this works just as well.”

“Does it? How many cameras show us coming up to the building and peacefully surrendering?” Max asks.

“Doesn’t matter. Footage can be scrubbed,” Smith says.

It’s Ivan’s turn to laugh. “Have you heard from your strike team over at 45th and Lennox yet?”

Bowman and Smith both give him a troubled glare. I see it in their eyes. The doubt. The sudden concern. I can almost hear their thoughts, the self-assuredness dwindling and fizzling away as a different scenario begins to take shape in their minds.

It’s relatively easy to fuck with a powerful man’s head if you know which buttons to push. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure these two out, and Ivan knew exactly where to hit them. Drunk on their own Kool-Aid, having gone unchecked for too long.

“Well?” Ivan asks, grinning. All I can do is hold my breath and watch the nightmare unfold, bracing myself for any potential outcome—though I don’t know how I’ll cope if the worst happens. “Any word?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Smith grumbles and takes out his phone.

“We were supposed to be there at precisely midnight, right?” Ivan asks. “What time is it now?”

Bowman gives Smith a curious look. “It’s ten minutes past. Did they check in?”

“No,” the director replies and starts calling his crew. A few rings in, and it begins to dawn on the guy that there’s nobody left at 45th and Lennox to pick up. “You son of a bitch,” he growls at Ivan. “What did you do?”

“What did I do? Nothing,” Ivan retorts. “We’ve been here the whole time. What did our cousins do? Well, that’s something else entirely, but it was probably exceptionally bloody and brutal. The Ivanovich boys, they’re wildcards. But I’m sure you already know that.”

Max exhales sharply. “I understand that power and success can warp your reality to the point where you feel invincible, Mr. Bowman. But life and the families that control Chicago are nowhere near as predictable as you think they are. That little vote you held this morning? Consider it scratched. We’re not going down that easily.”

“Wanna bet?” Bowman hisses and removes the safety on his gun. “On your knees. We’re done here.”

“Oh, you might want to rethink that,” Max says.

Mayhem erupts from somewhere upstairs. Loud bangs and boots thudding along the upper floors. Glass breaking. Men shouting. Smith glances over his shoulder, his brow furrowed with concern. “What the fuck is happening?”

“Go check,” Bowman snarls.

“With me,” Smith tells the armed agents. He heads for the door, but the men give each other clearly hesitant looks. I’m sure they understand what’s going on upstairs and they don’t want to be on the receiving end. “What are you doing?” Smith asks when none of them move.

“You said it would be a clean operation,” one of the agents replies.

Max shoots them a cool grin. “That’s Quantico upstairs. The cavalry has arrived, and trust me, they’re not here for us.”

“What?” another agent croaks, shocked enough to take his mask off as he gives Smith the ugliest look. “What the fuck did you do?”

Smith points an angry finger at him. “Follow my lead. Let’s go upstairs and see what’s going on. Now.”

“Fuck that. You go,” the agent insists.

“Come on,” a third guy gives him a nudge.

There’s some mild protest, but nothing that Smith’s barking orders can’t handle. These are lower-level agents. Tactical gearheads who follow orders no matter what. And dirty as hell.

Reluctantly, the team of agents follows Smith through the door, leaving Bowman with the four of us. But Bowman seems unsettled and ready to blow. Fury mars his features, causing a vein to thicken and throb along his temple as he looks at the men.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Your reckoning, you piece of shit,” Ivan answers.

“We called Quantico and delivered all the proof they needed to come down here and clean house,” Max adds. “Your bestie Matthew foolishly kept a treasure trove of incriminating evidence against you and your entire crew. And all of that precious material is now in the hands of the Deputy Director of the FBI, who sounded pretty pissed when I reached out to him about all this.”

“What evidence?” Bowman asks, unable to keep a clear focus.

“You name it, he’s got it. Paper trails. Photographs. Video. Court and bank documents. Statements. Photocopies of each of your ledgers,” Max replies. “Your pride is going to be your undoing, Mr. Bowman. You don’t go after the heads of the Bratva and expect us to just quiver and bow down.”

Bowman exhales deeply, then raises his gun and points it at me. “Then I start with Lyric first.”