55. Chapter 55

55

Dimitri

2 days later

C hert. The night air is cold, biting through my jacket as I step out of the SUV.

Erik and Oleg are already out, their eyes scanning the area.

This place—the old shipping yard—smells like oil and rust. It's deserted, just a heap of rotting metal and shadows, perfect for the kind of business we're about to handle. Skull Collector's hideout is dead ahead, buried in the shell of an old factory, like rats hiding in the bones of something long dead.

"Quiet," Oleg mutters, his voice low, sharp. He moves with that ice-cold precision of his, every step calculated. "They're in there."

Erik cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders, the sound echoing in the quiet. He's got that cocky smirk plastered on his face, the one that always grinds my gears.

"Bet you fifty bucks that they won't even see us coming," he says, swinging his knife around, spinning it once before sliding it back into the sheath at his side.

"Focus," I growl, the irritation crawling up my spine. His cocky bullshit's the last thing I need right now.

Erik chuckles low. "Someone's moody." He gives me a side-eye, like he knows exactly what's fucking with my head.

And I hate it because he's right.

Two days . Yob tvoyu mat' , and I'm still feeling Wren—her scent, her skin, her goddamn touch—it's all over me like she's fucking branded me. The heat of her, the way she looks at me... it's in my head, under my skin, crawling through me like a drug I can't shake off.

But this isn't the time. Not now.

I push it down, shove her out of my mind as hard as I fucking can. There's no room for distractions here, not when we're about to walk into a shitstorm. Not when we're about to face the Skull Collector and his crew.

I adjust my grip on the gun, the weight of it is familiar, grounding. I glance at Erik, who's still grinning like an idiot. "You keep flapping your gums, you'll be the first one they hear."

Erik snorts, but the smirk fades as his eyes lock on the factory ahead. He knows when to shut the fuck up, at least.

Oleg's ahead, a silent shadow cutting through the dark.

The cold air bites at my face, but it's nothing compared to the ice in my chest. The factory looms closer, an ugly, hulking mass of concrete and metal, rotting from the inside out. Perfect place for these cockroaches to hide.

"Stay tight," Oleg says, his voice low, cutting through the tension. His eyes flick toward me. "You ready?"

I nod, the adrenaline already thrumming in my veins, forcing me to focus. The second I step inside, it's go-time. No thinking about Wren, no fucking around. Just me, my crew, and the bastards inside who've got a bullet with their name on it.

The three of us move in sync, like we've done this a hundred times—because we have. Years of shit, years of killing, hunting, and surviving. Erik pulls out his knife again, spinning it once more, then slips it back into place with a grin.

We reach the side of the building. Oleg signals with two fingers. "We split. I take the left, you and Erik clear the right. Meet in the middle."

"Got it," I grunt. My eyes narrow as I scan the area. No movement. Too quiet.

We slip into the factory, shadows swallowing us whole. The place smells like rotting wood and old grease, the kind of place that hasn't seen life in years. But I know they're here. I can feel it—the Skull Collector and his scum are watching, waiting. They think they've got the upper hand. They don't know we're about to tear their world apart.

Footsteps echo faintly, the sound bouncing off the walls. I glance at Erik. He's moving low, knife in hand, eyes sharp, scanning the dark corners. He catches my eye, gives me a nod. We're ready.

The moment's tense, charged. Then it happens—shots explode from the shadows, the deafening crack of gunfire lighting up the space.

"Contact!" I shout, diving for cover behind a rusted metal beam, my gun already up, returning fire. Erik moves like a damn cat, slipping into the darkness, silent but deadly.

The factory fills with chaos—bullets ricocheting, the stench of gunpowder thick in the air. I feel the adrenaline pumping through me, steadying my aim. I catch a figure moving in the corner of my eye and fire, the bastard dropping like a sack of bricks.

"Oleg, flank left!" I shout into my comms, hearing the confirmation crackle back. Oleg's already on it, his icy calm never faltering.

I turn to check on Erik just as I feel it—a sharp, burning pain slamming into my chest. Fuck.

I stumble back, gasping as the blood starts to pour out, hot and sticky. My hand flies to my chest, feeling the wetness, the warmth. I grit my teeth, eyes scanning the area. Bastard got me from the side.

Erik's voice cuts through the haze. "D! You hit?"

I can't breathe for a second, the pain shooting through me like fucking fire. But I force myself to stay upright, gun still in hand.

"Keep going," I snarl through gritted teeth. "Finish this!"

I can hear Oleg shouting something, but it's muffled like I'm underwater. My legs give out, and I hit the floor, my back slamming into the cold concrete. The world tilts, everything spinning in slow motion. My breath comes out ragged, wheezing through the pain.

Chert. Fuck no, this isn't how it ends. Not like this.My chest tightens, but it's not just from the bullet. It's Wren—her face, her scent, her goddamn touch.I'll crawl out of here if I have to.The pain can go to hell. All I see is her.