16
Iskander
The warehouse still smells of smoke and scorched concrete when Timur and I arrive to survey the damage. It’s been three days since Mikhail’s crew hit our supply route, and the financial impact cuts deeper than I initially calculated. Twisted metal beams frame what used to be our most profitable distribution center, now reduced to blackened rubble and insurance claims.
I walk through the debris and tally the losses, which reach far beyond simple property damage. In one night, we lost over six months of prudently cultivated relationships with suppliers. Our network of trusted drivers and handlers fled to employers who could promise them safety, and years of effort establishing revenue streams disappeared in a single, coordinated assault.
“The preliminary report.” Timur hands me a folder with a little golden claps, thick with photographs and estimates. “We’re looking at eight hundred thousand in direct losses, not counting the disruption to ongoing operations.”
I flip through images that chronicle Mikhail’s methodical approach to warfare. The explosions were clearly surgical strikes designed to cripple our infrastructure while sending a clear message about his capabilities. “Any casualties among our people?”
“Two were hospitalized with smoke inhalation, but both are expected to fully recover. The night watchman saw them coming and triggered the evacuation protocols you implemented last month.” He picks up a twisted piece of machinery, examining it with professional detachment. “Without those procedures, we’d be planning funerals instead of rebuilding.”
The thought of dead men weighing on my conscience provides cold comfort against the magnitude of our losses. Mikhail isn’t interested in unnecessary bloodshed. He just wants me alive to suffer the systematic destruction of everything I’ve built.
We walk the perimeter of the damage, and I make mental calculations about reconstruction timelines and alternative supply routes. The practical aspects of recovery demand attention, but beneath those concerns runs a deeper current of rage that threatens to override strategic thinking.
“He’s forcing us to react emotionally instead of tactically.” I kick aside a chunk of concrete, frustration bleeding through my carefully maintained composure. “Every attack requires an immediate response, which means we’re always playing defense.”
“Da, and defense doesn’t win wars.” Timur stops beside what used to be the main office, now a skeleton of steel beams and scattered paperwork. “We need to take the initiative and hit him where he’s vulnerable instead of waiting for the next assault.”
The logical part of my mind agrees with his assessment, but another part—the part that thinks about Willa sleeping in my bed every night—rebels against escalating the conflict. Every move toward active warfare increases the danger surrounding her and our babies. “What do you recommend?”
“We should undertake full, aggressive intelligence gathering on his operations, then coordinated strikes against his key assets. We need to make him react to our moves instead of dictating the terms of engagement.” He pulls out his phone and shows me surveillance photos of known Balakin safe houses. “We have the resources and manpower to hurt him badly with the new reinforcements from Moscow, and if we take off the gloves for how we gather intelligence.” He’s referring to how I’ve insisted on discreet surveillance while he’s been advocating for kidnapping some of Mikhail’s top lieutenants for brutal interrogation.
I study the images of nondescript buildings that house Mikhail’s Charleston operations. Three months ago, I would have approved the strikes without hesitation. Now, the thought of escalating violence while Willa grows more vulnerable with each passing day makes strategy more complicated. “There’s something else we need to discuss.” I close the folder and turn away from the wreckage. “Something that affects long-term planning beyond just this conflict with Mikhail.”
He raises an eyebrow at my serious tone. “What kind of long-term planning?”
We walk back toward our cars, away from the construction crews already beginning cleanup efforts. The conversation I’m about to initiate will surprise and probably concern him. It will definitely change our relationship in ways I can’t fully predict. “I want out.” The words emerge with more certainty than I expectedeven after days of thought. “Not immediately, not recklessly, but eventually. I want to build a legitimate future for Willa and our children.”
He stops walking and turns to face me directly, his expression shifting from surprise to something approaching alarm. “Out of what, exactly?”
“The organization and the illegal operations.” I lean against my car, studying his reaction. “I want to cash out my interests, transfer operational control to you, and invest in legitimate businesses that won’t endanger my family.”
“Family.” He repeats the word like he’s testing unfamiliar language. “You’re talking about the woman and the babies she’s carrying.”
“Seven babies who deserve a father not constantly looking over his shoulder for federal investigations or rival syndicates.” The admission feels both liberating and terrifying. “They deserve better than what I can offer while running criminal enterprises.”
He leans against his own vehicle, processing this information quietly. His silence stretches long enough that I wonder if I’ve shocked him beyond response. “How long have you been thinking about this?”
“Seriously? Since the night I realized Willa was pregnant, but the idea has been growing stronger every day since then.” I exhale harshly. “Last night, holding her while she worried about carrying seven babies to term, I understood my priorities have fundamentally shifted.”
His expression and tone remain inscrutable. “From what to what?”
“From building an empire to protecting a family.” The distinction crystallizes something I’ve been struggling to articulate. “The empire was about power and control. The family is about love and legacy.”
He considers this for several minutes, his expression cycling through various stages of concern and calculation. When he finally speaks, it’s with hard-earned wisdom. “You understand that leaving this life isn’t like quitting a legitimate job? There’s no two weeks’ notice or clean transition to civilian status. Once you’re in, you’re in for life unless you die or disappear.”
“Which is exactly why I need to plan this carefully, execute it properly, and ensure everyone’s safety throughout the process.” I straighten up, meeting his concerned gaze directly. “I’m not talking about running away or abandoning responsibilities. I want to undertake strategic restructuring that benefits everyone involved.”
“Everyone except the people who depend on your leadership and protection.” The faintest hint of disapproval seeps through in his tone.
His point hits uncomfortably close to legitimate concerns I’ve been avoiding. My organization employs hundreds of people in various capacities, from street-level dealers to sophisticated money launderers. Walking away affects more than just my own future.
“That’s why I want you to take operational control. You have the experience, the respect, and the strategic thinking necessary to maintain everything I’ve built. I want to see the organization evolve under new leadership.”
“What if I’m not interested in that level of responsibility?”
