Chapter Eleven

T he flight to Moscow went by fast, but Saint found himself gripping the armrests more than a few times as they bounced around in the sky. Snowstorms were closing in everywhere and the last thing he wanted was to get stuck there. In and out. That was the goal.

Once they landed, Saint touched base with Braxton. “If everything goes according to plan, I should have the packages and be on my way back to Hunter within a few hours. Just so you know, I gave Mia my burner. If you don’t hear from me by tonight…”

His voice trailed off because, yeah, there was the very real chance he wouldn’t make it out this time.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Brax asked. “This is starting to sound like a suicide mission.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Saint insisted. “Just being realistic. Nothing is foolproof.”

“We can still come and help—”

“No, it’s too late. I need to move now.” Brax was smart enough to know there was no talking Saint out of it. Because he probably also knew it was personal.

“Good luck, Saint. I expect you to get your ass out of there safely and then I want a full report.”

“Roger.”

After hanging up, Saint checked his weapons and moved the goodies he wanted to bring from the duffel bag into his backpack. He had flashbangs, extra magazines and a couple of special gadgets including an MVT, courtesy of Dash Slater. One quick blast from the small fuel cartridge emitted a white-hot flame that would melt through any metal. If all went off without a hitch, he may not need any of it.

But when did things ever go exactly the way you planned?

Hunter appeared, studying him closely. “There’s a black SUV waiting for you, courtesy of Banshee. You need anything else?”

“Just my getaway jet to be ready when I return,” he answered.

“She’ll be ready,” Hunter assured him. “I have a feeling we’re going to want to get the hell outta here fast.”

“You think I’m gonna get in trouble?”

“Probably.” She tossed him a wink. “I also want to beat the storms, so don’t dick around.”

“I won’t.” The snow would hit soon, and it would be brutal. His mind briefly flashed back to the cabin. The last thing he wanted was a call that Mia escaped. With Nadia in charge, though, he highly doubted it would happen. But he had to put it out of his mind and focus on the task at hand. Distractions were a sure way to get himself killed.

He pulled on a warm coat and gloves, then grabbed the backpack and headed out to the SUV. After conferring with his GPS, he headed for Anton Petrov’s compound. It was a veritable fortress swarming with Bratva soldiers, but Saint knew it like the back of his hand. He also knew that today was delivery day, the one day of the week when the gates opened and trucks dropping off supplies were allowed inside.

And Saint planned to be on one of those trucks.

His plan was straightforward enough and his insider knowledge would serve him well. At one point, he’d been in charge of the scheduled deliveries coming in, so he knew how it was handled and where items wound up. The driver would stop at a checkpoint exactly one kilometer away, at the turn that led to the compound. The truck would be checked in and quickly swept for any explosives or anything suspicious.

That’s where Saint would catch his ride and cross his fingers. And hope he wasn’t caught and shot.

◆◆◆

The deliveries came throughout the day, but Saint was waiting for a particular truck—the one that would contain crates of perishable foods. Petrov fed his own little army and the food truck would be loaded with containers of vegetables, fruits and dairy products which would be unloaded with a forklift and delivered directly inside the compound, rather than stuck in a warehouse out back.

After hiding the SUV a couple of miles back, Saint trudged through the snow, staying off the road, but within view of it. He was confident the food truck would arrive in the designated delivery window—between nine and four—and he would be ready.

Once he got close to the checkpoint, which consisted of several small gatehouses, he used the enormous snow mounds as cover. Lying flat on his belly, he crawled forward, hunkered down in a good spot and checked his watch. If he was lucky, his ride would be one of the first trucks to arrive. Otherwise, he might be waiting all day.

Wishing he had a cigarette, he unwrapped a stick of gum, popped it into his mouth and settled in to wait. Luck was on his side and, before he could freeze to the ground, he saw the food truck rumbling up the road. Only one man was at the guard station, looking bored, and when the truck rolled up, Saint moved out from behind the snow drift and stealthily crawled beneath the vehicle.

He watched two sets of feet move around to the rear, heard the back door open and waited patiently while the cargo was checked and crates were counted. Ready to move, he saw the men exit and, while they signed off on paperwork, Saint hauled ass. He slid out from underneath the truck and hopped into the open back door. His window of opportunity was slim and he’d barely ducked down behind a crate when the driver returned and re-locked the back door.

Whew. Relief filled him as the truck began to roll forward. Without a moment to spare, he pulled a crowbar from his backpack, carefully pried an edge open, and slipped into the container. Surrounded by bananas and mangoes, he wedged himself in, pulling the lid back in place. Hopefully security would be too lax to notice.

Taking in big, deep breaths through his nose, he exhaled calmly through his mouth, doing his best not to panic within the enclosed space. Fortunately, the carton had slats and was large enough that he didn’t feel trapped. He could see out, keep an eye on his surroundings, and that made him feel better.

There was no turning back now.

It wasn’t long before the truck stopped to be unloaded and he heard voices outside the vehicle. Not daring to breathe, he waited, on the verge of heading back into the demon’s belly. He owed Petrov a bullet in the head, but he’d settle for something even better. His plan had to work. He’d been waiting far too long for his revenge.

The crate he was in rumbled as the forklift arms picked it up and then set it down with a thunk in the drop-off zone.

Moment of truth. Before the containers could be opened and inspected, Saint pushed the lid off and climbed out. He carefully listened and timed the movement of the forklift. When the coast was clear, he ran for the door that led him into Petrov’s domain.

Avoiding security cams was child’s play. He’d helped install most of them, so he knew exactly where to duck down in order to stay out of sight. At one point, he’d even tried to persuade Petrov to install more, but the man had laughed and said no one would be stupid enough to attempt breaking into his home. Because if they did—well, they were as good as dead.

Apparently, Saint was about to put that theory to the test for a third time.

The first time, he’d been deep undercover with the FSS. End result? Caught and tortured for days on end by Petrov.

The second time, he’d snuck in with Dash Slater to steal back some crazy compound called T-Force. End result? Again, caught and tortured. Luckily, Slater’s team and a couple of SEAL friends had dropped in and saved the day.

Now, he was once again sneaking into the devil’s lair, believing he wouldn’t be caught and tortured. But, hey, third time’s the charm, right?

Honestly, getting in wasn’t the problem. The real trick was getting out. And this time he had to do it with Dr. Zaitsev and Nadia’s man in tow. He also had to keep his wits about him and not succumb to a panic attack. The escape tunnel he was counting on using was dark and narrow. In other words, his worst fucking nightmare. He also wouldn’t have Mia to talk him down and soothe him.

Adrenaline pumping, pistol in hand, Saint wove through the compound maze like he’d been living there just yesterday. Some things you never forget, and his time with the Bratva was one of them. If he could erase every awful memory from his mind, he would. But, the terrible things he’d seen and done were burned into his brain and branded on his skin.

Making his way on silent boots, he moved forward like a ghost until he reached the back staircase that would lead him down to the cells. He didn’t know what to expect once he reached the basement level. Sometimes Petrov had a guard down there, other times he didn’t.

Cautiously, he opened the door a crack and peered down the hallway, assessing the situation. A lone, black-inked guard sat at a desk, feet propped up, watching a small television set. He was completely absorbed in the show. On silent feet, Saint crept up behind him and before the man even knew what was happening, Saint reached around and tightened his thick forearm around the guard’s neck. The guard thrashed and kicked, his feet hitting the desk and nearly knocking the TV off, but Saint ended it with a quick snap. He let go and turned to see both Zaitsev and Nadia’s man.

“Who’re you?” Alexei asked, fingers wrapped around the bars.

“A friend of Nadia’s,” Saint answered, then eyed the chemist. Zaitsev should have no idea who he was, so Saint added, “I work for The Agency and I’m here to get you both out.”

“Thank God,” Dr. Zaitsev murmured, slumping in relief. “The Bratva wants the formula for Novichok.”

Saint snagged the keys off the guard’s body and moved closer to the cell. Guess he wouldn’t get to play with the MVT today. “Did you give it to them?”

“I had to. They were going to kill me,” he whined.

“Did you make a batch?” He needed confirmation for the second part of his plan.

Zaitsev nodded. “I’m sorry. Petrov had a gun to my head.”

“In gas form?”

“Yes.”

Saint grinned. Good. Exactly what he wanted to hear. “C’mon, you’re making another batch right now,” he said, and Zaitsev’s eyes widened.

The lab area had been upgraded and Saint thanked his lucky stars it was just up the hallway. They moved fast and, once inside, Saint shut the door and locked it. He quickly scanned for cameras, locating only one. Aiming at the lens above, he pulled the trigger on one of his gadgets and a dense, black substance shot out and covered the lens, hardening on contact within seconds. It was one of his favorite toys.

Saint turned to the men. “If you want to make it out of here alive, you need to do exactly as I say. Because this entire place is going to be a tomb.”

They both nodded, smart enough to know trying to make a run for it in the Bratva-infested compound would be suicide.

“Start making the Novichok,” Saint ordered, and Zaitsev got to work without a word. “Enough to release into the ducts and spread throughout the entire place.”

“A little goes a long way,” Zaitsev mumbled, busily searching for the ingredients that comprised his deadly recipe.

“You’re going to wipe out the Bratva?” Alexei asked in disbelief.

“As many fuckers as I can,” Saint promised. He glanced over at the chemist. “How long is this going to take?”

“Ten minutes? Maybe?”

“Make it eight,” Saint clipped. “And I have the gas masks. So if you want to make it out of here alive then you better do exactly as I say.”

“Y-yes, of course,” Zaitsev stuttered, and Alexei nodded.

Saint couldn’t think of a better revenge. But before he wiped them all out, he needed to see Petrov one last time. It might turn out to be a reckless move, but he needed closure with the monster who’d given him the majority of his scars.

Leaving Alexei and Zaitsev alone was slightly risky, but Saint came prepared and had a fun gadget, courtesy of Zane, that would lock them in the lab until he returned.

“I’ll be back,” he told them. “Be ready to release the gas and then get the hell out of here.”

He strode out, shut the door and grabbed the key-sized door jam from his pocket. Made of stainless steel, it could withstand six-hundred pounds of pressure and would easily keep those scrawny fools inside until he returned.

After securing the jammer between the door latch and strike plate, Saint headed straight for Petrov’s private domain. Hopefully, the man would be there. If not, Saint would go hunting.

Luckily for Saint, Petrov was a creature of habit who rarely varied his routine when he was at the compound, and Saint remembered his schedule. Currently, the Bratva ruler was in his massive bedroom taking a nap, which made it a perfect time for Saint to strike. He easily took down the guard at the door, quickly snapping his neck, then stepped inside, gun in hand.

Anton Petrov woke with a jolt when a bullet from the Udav sank into the pillow inches away from his face. Startled, he jumped up and reached for the gun beside him, but Saint fired again, hitting his hand. Petrov cried out and Saint smirked, noticing the scar on the man’s cheek and the two crooked fingers on his opposite hand, both courtesy of Dash Slater.

“Nikolai,” Petrov gasped. “You dare enter the lion’s den again? How many times will you get bitten before you learn?”

“It’s going to end differently this time,” Saint said, creeping closer.

Petrov had the gall to smile as blood soaked through the sheet he wrapped around his wounded hand. “It’ll never end differently. You’ll always be the unwanted, unloved orphan I plucked off the street and saved. I should’ve let you freeze to death for all the grief you’ve brought me. You’ve always been an ungrateful shit.”

“You turned me into a killer. A man without a conscience,” Saint growled.

“I put a roof over your head and food in your empty belly. And how did you repay me? By betraying me and giving the FSS intel on my organization. You’re lucky you’re still breathing. I showed you mercy.”

“Mercy?” Saint scoffed. “You tortured me to within an inch of my life.”

“You deserved it.”

“I never would’ve turned if you hadn’t sacrificed me. You sent me to prison to rot.”

“You needed to be tougher. I knew the Vory would either break you or instill a deep hate that would strengthen you. Besides, back then I needed you on the inside, gathering support for the Bratva.”

“You betrayed me,” Saint hissed.

“And I’d do it again, you thankless shit.” Before the words left his mouth, Petrov rolled off the edge of the bed, dropping to the floor and out of sight.

Stalking forward, Saint rounded the corner of the bed and saw Petrov lifting another gun which must’ve been tucked under his mattress. But Saint was faster and pulled his trigger first. Petrov cried out, his shot going wide, then slumped back against the nightstand. The hole in his chest oozed bright red blood.

“You’ll always be alone…” Petrov predicted, the pain making him grimace. “An unwanted, useless, nameless nobody.”

“Fuck you,” Saint snarled. For good measure, he fired two more times, a bullet in each leg so the asshole wouldn’t be able to run anywhere when the Novichok came pouring through the vents.

“You don’t belong anywhere…not with the Bratva, not with the Vory, not with the FSS…”

Each reminder hit him like a bullet. The gun, still pointed at Petrov, wavered because his fucking hand trembled. Even now, Petrov knew exactly what to say to hurt him most.

“You’re going to lie in an unmarked grave and no one will weep or mourn. Unloved. Your death will be a blessing…a goddamn relief…”

“You’re the one who’s going to die alone,” Saint said, doing his best to keep his voice steady. Time was running out, and he turned away from the man who had tried to break him again and again before he was tempted to end him with a final bullet. No, he refused to make it quick and painless. He’d let the neurotoxin do its job.

Time for the final nail to be driven into Petrov’s coffin.

◆◆◆

After disposing of two more guards, Saint returned to the subterranean lab, removed the door jam and stepped inside. Alexei and Zaitsev were ready and waiting.

“It’s done,” Zaitsev said, and Saint nodded. The chemist was getting good at whipping up batches of Novichok. Too good.

Saint pulled three tactical gas masks from his bag. They’d taken up most of the space, but it was necessary in case the Novichok decided to blow back in their faces. “One quick stop and then we’re outta here.”

After putting on the gas masks, they made their way to the nearby HVAC system and carefully released the Novichok. The heat blowing through the ducts combined with the deadly neurotoxin created a toxic combination that quickly moved throughout the compound.

Saint directed the two men to the underground exit the moment the neurotoxin was released and took point. It was Petrov’s secret escape, a deep tunnel that was a mile long. It was far too dark, but thank God, it was tall enough for Saint to remain standing. If he had to crawl out, he never would’ve made it.

Mia’s comforting words filled his head: Breathe through the fear.

Focusing on the trek and her advice, and not the way the tunnel seemed to be closing in on him, he forced his boots to keep moving. They were so close now. Almost to the exit point, and then they could circle around to the SUV and get back to the jet. Back to Perm…back to Mia.

With thoughts of Mia grounding him, Saint moved forward fast. At the end of the tunnel, they shoved the rusty door open, stepped out into the swirling snow and came face to face with one of Petrov’s men.

It had all gone too smoothly and he should’ve expected it to fall apart somewhere. When the bullet hit his arm, tearing through his coat, Saint flew backward and landed hard on the snow-covered ground.