Chapter 3: Alexei

The neon lights of the nightclub flicker like a heartbeat, pulsing in time with the deep bass that vibrates through the ground beneath my feet. It's the kind of place that's alive with a certain kind of energy—glamorous on the surface but with an undercurrent of something darker, something dangerous. Exactly the kind of place where Sergei Marakov's men would feel right at home.

I lean against the wall outside, taking in the scene as I wait for Irina to finish her reconnaissance. The address the contact gave us led straight here, to a club owned by one of Sergei's lieutenants. We're looking for any sign of Sergei, any whisper of where he might be hiding. It's a long shot, but in our world, long shots are often the best we've got.

The doors swing open, and Irina strides out, her expression as unreadable as ever. She's been inside for the past hour, scoping out the place, getting a feel for the layout and the people inside. As she approaches, I push off the wall and fall into step beside her.

"So," I say, keeping my tone light, "how's the party?"

She doesn't answer right away, just glances at me with those cold, calculating eyes. "It's a start. The staff is tight-lipped, though. We'll have to dig deeper."

"Good thing I'm here, then." I flash her a grin, trying to coax even a hint of a smile from her. Nothing. Just the same stony expression. "Relax, Irina. We've got this."

She narrows her eyes at me. "You're too confident for your own good."

"Confidence is half the battle," I reply, giving her a wink before heading toward the entrance. "Just follow my lead."

Inside, the club is a swirl of lights and bodies, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the tang of alcohol. I make my way to the bar, Irina trailing behind me, her eyes sweeping the room with the wariness of someone who's never completely off-guard.

"Two drinks," I tell the bartender, flashing a charming smile as I slide a generous tip across the counter. "And maybe some information to go with them."

The bartender, a slim guy with sharp features and a knowing look in his eyes, raises an eyebrow. "Information costs more than a tip, friend."

I lean in, keeping my voice low and friendly. "We're looking for someone. Heard he might be spending some time here. Name's Sergei Marakov."

The bartender's expression doesn't change, but there's a slight pause in his movements, just enough to tell me I've hit a nerve. "Never heard of him."

I chuckle, taking one of the drinks and sliding it across the bar to Irina. She takes it without comment, her gaze still scanning the crowd.

"Come on, now," I coax, keeping my tone light. "We both know that's not true. Maybe you can help us out. We're just looking for a chat, nothing more."

The bartender glances over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone's watching, before leaning in slightly. "Even if I did know something, it wouldn't be worth my neck to tell you. You should leave before you get yourself into trouble."

"Trouble's our middle name," I say with a grin, but I can feel Irina's patience wearing thin beside me.

She steps forward, setting her drink down on the bar with a little too much force. "We don't have time for games," she snaps, "Either you tell us what we want to know, or this is going to get ugly."

The bartender stiffens, his eyes darting between us, clearly weighing his options. Before he can answer, one of the bouncers—a big guy with arms like tree trunks—starts making his way toward us, suspicion written all over his face.

"Irina," I murmur, trying to keep the situation from escalating, "let's not get ahead of ourselves."

But she's already past the point of patience. "We're done waiting," she says, her tone icy as she turns to face the approaching bouncer.

"Is there a problem here?" the bouncer growls, glaring down at us with a look that promises violence.

"Not if you step aside and let us finish our conversation," Irina replies.

The bouncer doesn't even hesitate. He reaches out to grab her arm, and that's when all hell breaks loose.

Irina moves like a flash of lightning, twisting out of his grasp and delivering a sharp elbow to his ribs that sends him staggering back. The bartender drops behind the counter, disappearing from view as the bouncer regains his footing, his face twisted with rage.

"Great," I mutter, tossing my drink aside and squaring up. "So much for subtlety."

The bouncer comes at Irina again, but she's already two steps ahead, dodging his swing and landing a swift kick to the side of his knee. He stumbles, and I take the opportunity to step in, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the bar. The impact rattles the bottles lined up behind the counter, and a couple shatter, spilling liquor everywhere.

Another bouncer is charging toward us, and I barely have time to register him before Irina takes off, meeting him head-on. The two clash, and it's clear within seconds that this isn't her first bar fight. She's all precision and force, and I find myself almost admiring the way she dismantles him, step by step.

But there's no time for admiration. More of Sergei's men are closing in, and I know we're outnumbered. I grab the first bouncer's arm and twist it behind his back, sending him crashing to the floor before turning to help Irina.

"We've got to move!" I shout over the noise, catching Irina's attention as she delivers a final blow to her opponent.

"I'm aware!" she snaps back, wiping blood from her knuckles as she turns to face me, her eyes flashing with determination. "But we're not leaving until we get what we came for."

"Right," I say, a touch of sarcasm slipping through. "Because everything's going exactly according to plan."

She doesn't respond, just pushes past me, grabbing the bartender by the collar as he tries to slink away. "You're not going anywhere until you tell us what we want to know."

The guy's trembling now, eyes wide with fear. "Okay, okay! Sergei was here, but he left hours ago. He only comes in when he needs something, never stays long."

"And where does he go?" I press, keeping an eye on the room.

Sergei's men are pushing through the crowd, closing in, and it's only a matter of time before they surround us completely.

The bartender shakes his head frantically. "I don't know! But there's a warehouse a few blocks from here. Sometimes he meets people there—deals, shipments, that kind of thing."

Irina's grip tightens. "You're sure?"

"Yes, I swear! Now, please, just let me go."

Irina glances at me, and I nod, signaling that we need to get out of here—now. She releases the bartender, who scrambles back behind the bar, no doubt counting his blessings that we're letting him off easy.

But before we can make our escape, the situation takes a deadly turn. One of Sergei's men catches sight of the bartender trying to slip away, and with a cold, calculated movement, he pulls a gun. The sound of the shot is deafening in the confined space of the bar. I watch in horror as the bartender's body jerks, then crumples to the floor, a dark pool of blood spreading rapidly beneath him.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath.

The message is clear: These men aren't playing games.

More of the men cut us off, blocking the way out. They're armed, and it's clear they're not planning on letting us leave without a fight. One of them levels a gun in our direction, his eyes cold.

"Time to go," I mutter, reaching for my weapon.

Shots ring out, echoing through the club. I duck, grabbing Irina's arm and pulling her to the ground as bullets fly overhead. The patrons scream and scatter, adding to the chaos. Irina fires back, her movements quick and precise. One of the guards goes down, but more take his place, and it's clear we're outnumbered.

"We need to get out, now!" I shout, my voice barely audible over the din.

Irina nods. We start moving, using the tables and the bar as cover, pushing toward the back exit. The gunfire is relentless, and I can feel the sting of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Just as we reach the exit, a sharp pain tears through my side. I gasp, stumbling forward, and I realize I've been hit. I don't have time to assess the damage, don't even have time to think—just push through it, keep moving, get out of here before it's too late.

We burst through the back door, the cool night air hitting us like a slap. I don't let go of Irina until we're halfway down the block, the pain in my side intensifying with every step. My breath comes in ragged gasps, and I can feel the warmth of blood seeping through my shirt.

"That could've gone smoother," I say, forcing the words out, still half-jogging to put more distance between us and the club.

Irina glares at me, her eyes blazing. "If you hadn't wasted time playing nice, we could've been out of there with the information we needed."

"And if you hadn't gone all Rambo on them, we might have slipped out unnoticed," I shoot back, though the pain in my side makes the words come out more strained than I intended. She's tough, I'll give her that, but I can't deny that her methods are effective, if a bit . . . aggressive.

We reach our safe house. It's a rundown apartment building that is off the grid, and we slip inside, locking the door behind us. The place is dark and sparse, but it'll do for now.

Irina checks the windows, making sure we weren't followed, before finally turning to face me. "We've got a location."

"Yeah." I nod, catching my breath but wincing as the movement sends a sharp pain through my side. "A warehouse. Could be something, could be nothing. But it's all we've got."

She crosses her arms, leaning against the wall as she studies me, her expression unreadable. "We'll check it out tomorrow. But next time, we do things my way."

I give her a half-smile. But it's taking everything I have to keep upright, to keep the pain from showing on my face. "We'll see."

She doesn't argue, just nods, finally letting some of the fight drain out of her. We're on the same side, after all, even if we have a hell of a time agreeing on how to get the job done. And as much as I hate to admit it, I'm starting to see that we might just make a good team—if we don't kill each other first.

But as she turns away, I feel the strength drain from my legs. I brace myself against the wall, trying to steady my breathing, but it's no use. The pain is too sharp, too overwhelming, and when I lift my hand, it comes away slick with blood.

"Alexei?" Irina's voice is suddenly sharp, alert, and she's at my side in an instant, her eyes wide as she sees the blood.

"Oh, fuck," I mutter, finally letting the pain show on my face as my vision starts to blur. "This . . . is going to be a problem."