I drive through Moscow's afternoon traffic, my mind already on the operation ahead. The radio crackles with status reports from the intercept teams. Everyone's in position, weapons checked, targets confirmed.
The highway outside Tver is empty except for our vehicles. We've blocked civilian traffic, created a kill zone with no witnesses. The drones circle overhead, their cameras feeding real-time intel to the command center.
At 10:47 p.m., the target convoy appears on the horizon. Three black SUVs, just as the intelligence predicted. They're moving fast, trying to reach the border before we can react.
They're too late.
"All units, this is Control," I speak into the radio. "Targets confirmed. Execute on my mark."
The first SUV hits the spike strip at exactly 11:02 and the tires explode, sending the vehicle careening off the road. It rolls twice before coming to rest on its side, steam rising from the crushed engine.
The second vehicle tries to swerve around the wreckage, but our intercept team is already there. They box it in, forcing it tostop. The third SUV attempts to reverse but finds itself blocked by another unit.
"Secure the perimeter," I order. "No one leaves alive."
The firefight is brief but intense. The Karpin soldiers are outnumbered and outgunned. They put up a fight, but it's over within minutes. Bodies litter the highway, blood mixing with broken glass and twisted metal.
I approach the overturned SUV, my weapon ready. Through the shattered windshield, I can see movement inside. Someone's still alive.
"Get him out," I tell my team.
They drag Damir from the wreckage, his face bloody, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle. He's conscious but barely, his eyes unfocused with pain and shock.
"Maksim Vetrov," he says when he sees me. "I should have known."
"You should have run farther."
"I tried to protect her." Blood runs from his mouth as he speaks. "I tried to keep her safe."
"You sold her out."
"I had no choice." He struggles to sit up, but the pain drops him back to the ground. "They would have killed us both."
"So you chose to kill her first."
"I chose to give her a chance." His eyes are desperate now, pleading. "And she chose you, thinking you'd protect her."
"She was right. I will protect her." I raise my weapon. "From you."
"Wait." He holds up his good hand. "Please. Tell her—tell her I'm sorry." He closes his eyes. "Tell her I loved her. Whatever else I did, I loved her."
I think about Zoya's face when she asked me to spare his life. I think about the tears in her eyes when she accepted that Icouldn't. I think about the locket in my pocket, the weight of it against my heart.
"I'll tell her," I say.
Then I pull the trigger.
The highway falls silent except for the crackle of burning vehicles. My team works quickly, confirming kills and securing evidence. Within an hour, the scene is clean, the bodies removed, the wreckage cleared.
I drive back to Moscow as dawn breaks over the city. The locket in my pocket feels heavier now, weighted with the knowledge of what I've done, but also with the certainty that it was necessary.
Zoya is waiting when I arrive at the safehouse. She doesn't ask what happened. She simply takes me in her arms and holds me while I tell her about her brother's final words.
"He said he loved you," I finish. "Whatever else he did, he loved you."
She cries then, for the brother she lost and the family that never was. But when the tears stop, she looks at me with clear eyes.
"Thank you," she says. "For keeping us safe."
