31. Logan

CHAPTER 31

LOGAN

My pulse is loud in my ears, an unstoppable drumbeat of dread. Vlad slams his phone down on the desk and rakes a hand through his slicked-back hair, a rare slip in his normally unflappable composure. Not counting the blow that he delivered just now. The energy in the room crackles with restrained rage. And I don’t think that rage is directed at me anymore.

Vlad paces the office with his hands on his hips, his eyes glinting like sharpened steel. Something in Russian—probably a curse word—falls from between his lips. Then he yells for Ivan. His voice is a unique blend of roar and plea.

Meanwhile, my mind reels. This is my fault. If I hadn't gotten close to Sasha... If these people didn’t take photos of us, didn’t get leverage…

"Logan?" Vlad's icy stare pins me in place. "Why exactly are you still here?"

Before I can respond, the door swings open. Ivan strides in, all compact muscle. Vlad barks orders at him in rapid-fire Russian, the foreign words colliding like bullets. I catch a few– Sasha, photos, now . The rest is lost to me.

"We are done," Vlad says, finally shifting his gaze to me.

There’s adrenaline pumping through my veins, ideas forming. "I can help."

A dark laugh escapes Vlad's mouth. "You have done quite enough." His tone slices through me, cutting to the bone.

Ivan nods curtly and strides back out, purpose in every movement. Vlad follows him. Without thinking, I fall into step behind them as they march through the house.

"I will ask you once more, McKenna," Vlad snaps as we turn the corner. "Why are you still here?"

"I'm going to get him back, with or without you."

Vlad stops and turns to me. Ivan stops too but keeps a respectable distance.

"You have no idea what you are up against." Vlad’s breath ghosts across my face, laced with expensive whiskey, cigars, and menace. "These men will tear you apart."

"You’re forgetting, I was a cop. I've dealt with scum like this before."

"And look how that turned out for you." Vlad's words land like a sucker punch. My fists clench at my sides. But I refuse to let him bully me.

"I still have contacts. Resources." I force the words out through gritted teeth. "I'm not just going to sit on my ass while Sasha's in danger."

Vlad stares me down, searching for something in my eyes. Moments tick by, slow and tense. Finally, he steps back.

"Fine." The agreement is clipped, reluctant. "But if you get in my way, you are out. " He lets the threat hang in the air.

I nod, a jerky motion. I'm in this now, for better or worse. Mostly worse , a voice in my head whispers.

Vlad flicks his hand, not looking at anyone in particular, and we’re off again, whatever the destination is in this sprawling maze of corridors and expensive artwork.

Ivan marches beside us while Vlad leads. The decor is a blend of tasteful elegance and cold opulence, a fitting reflection of its owner. But there's no time to appreciate the finer details. Every second counts when Sasha's life hangs in the balance.

When we’re in the part of the house I’m not familiar with very well, Vlad stops abruptly before a nondescript door, punching in a series of numbers on a keypad with swift, practiced motions. The lock disengages with a soft click, and he yanks the door open, revealing a set of stairs descending into darkness.

I follow him down, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm against my ribs. I’m surprised how I can’t make it stop no matter what I tell myself. I’ve had situations worse back on the force and I don’t remember being this wired up. But then again, I wasn’t trying to fight for the person dear to me, for the person I cared so much about it hurt just thinking about him being in captivity.

The stairs open up into a room that looks like it was ripped straight out of an FBI operations center. Monitors line the walls, their screens casting an eerie blue glow across the space. High-tech equipment and sleek servers hum with barely contained power.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath, taking it all in. Even the police department couldn't dream of having gear like this.

But that’s Vlad Solovey for you. Money apparently can buy everything, including government-grade spy tech.

In the corner, a young man sits at a desk. He’s hunched over a laptop, his fingers flying across the keys. Vlad strides over to him, Ivan and I trailing behind.

" Nu kak ?" Vlad asks. "Anything?"

The man looks up, his face pale and drawn in the harsh light of the monitors. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five. "Last trace of Sasha is at some lounge. Phone and your car near the Strip," the young man replies in broken English.

Vlad turns to me and says, "This is my associate, Andrey. He’s my tech guy."

"Hey." I tip my chin at Andrey. "Logan." I don’t offer my hand for a shake because I’m not even sure what the protocol is anymore. Or what’s acceptable among these people.

"Alexander’s security detail," Vlad introduces me to Andrey. I swear I can almost hear the sarcasm in his tone as if he’s trying to pour more salt into my wounds.

"How did you know his location?" I ask Andrey. "The app stopped working last night."

"Andrey is very good at what he does," Vlad says with a hint of pride in his voice, then switches his attention to his tech guy. " Daika posmotriy, Andryusha ," he adds in Russian, flipping Andrey’s laptop over to see the screen better. "That’s the place?" He points his finger at the red dot on the screen.

" Da ," Andrey replies with a sigh.

I stare at the digital map, realizing the street feels familiar. And then it hits me. "Shit." The word rushes out before I can stop it, heavy with dread. "That’s Downers."

"Ahhh… Is bad place," Ivan comments.

Vlad's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the surface. "Let's go," he growls, already moving toward the stairs.

I don’t think. I simply follow, praying we're not too late.

The black SUV comes to an abrupt halt behind Downers, the vehicle's tires crunching against the gravel as if trying to dig a hole in the earth itself. It’s still early in the day and the bar is closed, its neon signs dark, the staff parking lot deserted except for a couple of vehicles.

There’s oppressive silence inside the SUV, broken only by the purr of the engine.

Ivan is the first to exit, his movements swift and decided. He strides over to the establishment's back door, raises a fist, and pounds on the metal. The sound echoes through the empty alleyway like a gunshot.

Vlad and I exchange a tense glance as we climb out, flanked by Vlad's hired muscle.

When no answer from inside the bar comes, Ivan pounds on the door again.

After a long moment, the door finally cracks open, revealing a sliver of a man's face. Middle-aged. Balding head. He seems to be an employee, dressed in standard non-slippery shoes, the kind all restaurant workers are required to wear, Dickies pants, and a shirt with a bar’s logo stitched into the fabric. He says something to Ivan in Russian, his tone clearly hostile.

Ivan doesn't flinch. He leans in, his words a low, menacing growl. "Open the door. Now."

The man hesitates, his eyes darting nervously to Vlad. But Ivan doesn't give him a chance to refuse. He forces his way in, shoving the door wide open.

We step inside.

"Take us to the security room. Now," Vlad orders.

"Mr. Solovey…" The man nearly bows to Vlad when he sees him. Then he adds something in Russian.

Ivan nudges the bar worker forward. " Davai, davai ," he growls.

I don’t question the tactics. I work for a mobster. I should have known that sooner or later it'd come to this. I’m expecting for the guns the hired muscle brought along to be entering the game too if things don’t go our way.

We follow the worker through the bowels of the establishment and into the poorly lit corridor. The air here is thick with the stench of beer, cheap cigarette smoke, greasy food, and dishwashing liquid. My nerves are wound tight, every sense on high alert.

I can see a bead of sweat trickling down the worker's neck. He’s scared of Vlad. Or maybe he's scared of his own boss.

What have I gotten myself into?

I force down the rising panic, focusing on the task at hand. We're here for Sasha. And we won't leave without information.

The worker stops outside the door marked Security . He knocks.

Vlad's patience snaps. "Open up," he commands to whomever is on the other side.

The lock clicks, the door swinging inward. We step into the small room where the walls are lined with monitors. Just not the kind Vlad has in his basement. These are cheap and old. A single guard surveys our group before stepping to the side. He probably knows better than to argue.

Vlad moves toward the console, his presence swallowing up all the air in the room. "Pull up last night's footage," he orders, his voice permitting no argument.

The guard hesitates for a moment, his gaze darting between Vlad and Ivan. Ivan's deadly glare seems to be the deciding factor, and the guard quickly turns to the console, his fingers moving over the keys, shaking a little. "Y-yes, sir. Right away," he mutters. "Any particular time?"

I move closer to the monitors too, my pulse skyrockets as the screens flicker. The grainy footage reveals the bar's interior, patrons milling about, lost in their own worlds.

"Nine," Vlad says.

The guard fast-forwards the footage to the timestamp indicated to him.

My eyes scan the images, desperately searching for any sign of Sasha. The seconds tick by, each one an eternity.

And then, there he is.

Sasha enters the frame, his movements choppy as he approaches the bar. He’s upset and doesn’t feel comfortable. I can tell this much from the way he behaves. He settles onto a stool, signaling the bartender for a drink.

I lean forward to see the screen better, my breath caught in my throat.

Vlad and Ivan draw near, their gazes intent on the image. We watch as Sasha sits alone, nursing his drink, oblivious to whatever is going on around him.

Why did he go back there?

Makes no sense.

Then a man appears to his left. They strike up a conversation, their body language tense and aggressive.

"Pause it," Vlad orders.

The security guard does as he’s told.

Vlad and Ivan exchange glances and murmur something in Russian.

"Keep going," Vlad says.

A second man weasels his way to Sasha’s right.

My stomach twists as I realize what's about to happen.

In a flurry of movement, the men grab Sasha, dragging him off his stool. He struggles against their grip.

"Pause it," Vlad commands again.

The guard complies, freezing the image on the screen.

Vlad leans in, his finger jabbing at the monitor. "There. On his wrist. Zoom in."

The guard does as he is told.

I squint at the screen, trying to make out the details. As one of the men grapples with Sasha, his sleeve rides up, revealing a tattoo. A distinctive design, one I've seen before. Long time ago.

Ivan inhales sharply, his eyes widening in recognition. "Toro," he breathes, the word hanging in the air like a death warrant.

The name sends a chill down my spine. Toro is notoriously brutal, with a reputation for violence and bloodshed.

If they have Sasha...

I swallow hard, my mind reeling with the implications. This is no longer just a kidnapping. It's a declaration of war.

And we're standing on the front lines, with no idea what we're up against.