Rain hammered Moscow's underbelly, turning alleys into rivers of piss and oil. The Bratva safehouse hummed with bad blood—Viktor's map sprawled on a crate, red ink bleeding over two Chechen stash houses: dope in Zamoskvorechye, guns in Lefortovo.
Dmitri paced, Uzi dangling, shoulder stiff from his graze, spitting curses.
Nastya lounged against a wall, switchblade dancing in her fingers, smirking like she knew the punchline.
Four grunts—Yuri, Ivan, Sasha, and Grigori—loaded AKs and vests, their scars and ink a roadmap of violence.
Viktor jabbed the map, voice hard. "Two teams, simultaneous hits—stash houses are light at 3 AM, guards only. Team one: me, Nastya, Yuri, we gutted the dope. Team two: Dmitri, Ivan, Sasha, Grigori, you strip the guns. We rendezvous at their bar, Krov i Pivo, 4 AM—Chechens drink there. We will end it."
Dmitri laughed, sour. "Your plan, Petrov? Hope you're better at this than dodging bullets."
Viktor's eyes flicked to Dmitri's bandage. "I dodge. You bleed. Want me to draw you a picture?"
Nastya cackled, blade pausing. "Play nice, boys, or I'll carve you both new smiles—matching, like twins."
The grunts chuckled, but Dmitri's glare burned. Viktor ignored him, checking his Makarov. "Move fast, kill clean. No fuckups."
STASH HOUSE ONE: THE DOPE DEN
The Zamoskvorechye tenement loomed like a corpse—boarded windows, walls tagged with Chechen curses. Viktor, Nastya, and Yuri slunk through an alley, rain soaking their boots, breath fogging in the chill. Six guards inside, Viktor figured—AKs, vodka, lazy. Easy meat.
But as they neared the door, Viktor froze, hand up. A glint caught his eye—wire, taut across the threshold, rigged to a bundle of C4 taped under a stair.
"Trap," he hissed, pointing. Yuri cursed softly; Nastya's grin widened.
Viktor scanned the building—side window, cracked, no wires. "We go in quiet, turn their game on 'em." He pried the window, sliding through into a dank hallway, Nastya and Yuri behind. Footsteps echoed—two guards, chatting, oblivious. Viktor signaled: wait.
He looped the C4's wire to a loose pipe, rigging it to blow when the front door moved. Then—go.
Viktor's Makarov spat—two shots, two guards down.
Nastya darted past, blade sinking into a third's gut, twisting as he screamed.
Yuri's shotgun boomed, shredding a fourth's chest, blood painting heroin crates.
The fifth guard swung an AK—Viktor grabbed it, slammed the butt into his face, then shot him through the jaw.
The sixth lunged from a corner—Nastya's knife flew, pinning his hand to the wall, his howl cut short by Viktor's bullet.
Yuri splashed kerosene, laughing.
Viktor lit the match, flames roaring up, dope sizzling. Nastya pocketed a brick, winking. "For the road."
They stepped out—then a shout from the alley. A Chechen straggler, late to the party, yanked the door. BOOM. The air filled with fire and broken metal as the door blew.
Nastya clapped. "You throw a hell of a barbecue, soldier."
Viktor's gut churned—too slick, like the Chechens wanted them to feel safe. He checked his watch: 3:15 AM. "Dmitri's hit's next. If they rigged this, they rigged his too."
Nastya's eyes narrowed. "You think he's dumb enough to walk into it?"
Viktor was already moving. "He's Dmitri. Dumb's his blood type."
They piled into the van, Yuri flooring it, tires slashing through rain, wipers screaming. Viktor gripped his gun, mind racing—Dmitri's crew was walking blind, and blood was calling.
STASH HOUSE TWO: THE GUN VAULT
The Lefortovo factory was a rusted graveyard—cranes like bones, air thick with oil and death.
Dmitri's team had hit ten minutes ago, and it was a slaughterhouse.
As Viktor's van screeched up, gunfire cracked like thunder—Dmitri, Ivan, and Sasha pinned behind a shot-up truck, AK rounds chewing concrete. Grigori was down, half his face gone, blood pooling under rain.
Chechen snipers—five, maybe six—fired from the factory's upper floors, muzzle flashes like devil eyes. A rigged claymore had blown the entrance, leaving Dmitri's crew exposed.
Dmitri charged like a spooked bull, Uzi spewing bullets so wide they clipped the Chechens' ear tips. Blood sheeted down his cheek. "Where's my fucking backup?!"
Viktor leapt from the van, Nastya and Yuri behind, diving into a ditch. "Told you he's dumb," Viktor muttered, scoping the snipers. "Three high, two low—cocky bastards."
Nastya smirked, pulling a grenade. "Let's crash their party."
Viktor signaled Yuri—flank left. He and Nastya went right, crawling through mud and shrapnel. Viktor's Makarov popped—two snipers dropped, skulls bursting, scopes glinting useless.
Yuri's shotgun roared, shredding a third's legs, his scream choking as Yuri finished him with a boot to the throat.
Nastya lobbed her grenade—BOOM—it tore through a window, gutting a fourth sniper, fire blooming like a sick sunrise.
The fifth Chechen panicked, spraying bullets—caught Ivan in the shoulder, blood spraying. He was reloading when Dmitri howled and charged forward, tackling him, smashing his face with the Uzi's stock until it was pulp.
Sasha, gut-shot from the claymore, groaned, dragging himself to cover, useless.
Viktor stormed the factory, Nastya at his heels. Inside, crates of RPGs and rifles gleamed—booby-trapped, wires glinting. He froze, spotting a pressure plate under a crate.
"Dmitri, you dumb fuck—step back!"
Dmitri, looting a dead guard, sneered. "Don't lecture me, prison rat—" He shifted, and the plate clicked.
Viktor dove, tackling Nastya behind a crane—BOOM. The blast ripped the crates apart, shrapnel shredding Dmitri's leg, his scream high and raw. Ivan dragged him out, cursing, while Sasha bled out, eyes glassy. Yuri hauled the last RPGs to the van, untouched by the trap.
Viktor stood, ears ringing, ribs aching from a stray graze. "Told you—dumb."
Dmitri, panting, blood soaking his pants, spat at him. "Fuck you, Petrov. You planned this—"
Nastya laughed, wiping mud off her blade. "Oh, Dmitri, if he wanted you dead, you'd be fertilizer already. Say thank you—he saved your sorry ass."
Dmitri glared, but Ivan shoved him into the van, engine roaring.
RENDEZVOUS: THE BAR
Krov i Pivo was a neon scar in Butovo, Chechens' drunkard haven.
Viktor's crew pulled up at 3:55 AM, rain hammering, Dmitri's van limping behind—Sasha dead, Ivan bleeding, Dmitri hobbling, face a mask of pain and rage.
The bar glowed inside, packed—ten Chechens, maybe twelve, AKs slung, laughing over vodka. Magomed, Anton's old connect, held court—scarred face, gold teeth flashing.
A woman sat near him, dark hair, eyes like knives—gone when Viktor blinked, a ghost in the haze.
Nastya cracked her knuckles. "Big party. Shame we're crashing."
Viktor checked his mag, voice low. "Yuri, door. Ivan, cover Dmitri's limp. Nastya, with me—burn it down."
Dmitri snarled, leaning on Ivan. "Don't fuck this, Petrov, or I'll gut you myself."
Viktor grinned, dark. "Keep up, princess, or I'll leave you for the dogs."
Yuri kicked the door—shotgun blasted Magomed's chest to mush, gold teeth skittering across the floor.
Nastya hurled a Molotov, flames swallowing four Chechens, their screams sharp as glass.
Viktor's Makarov sang—three shots, three kills, heads bursting like overripe fruit.
Dmitri limped in, Uzi chattering, dropping two but catching a bullet in the arm, roaring as he fell.
Ivan dragged him back, Yuri taking a knife to the thigh, blood spurting but firing on.
Then—The bar's back wall exploded—three Chechens with RPGs, tipped off, maybe by Magomed's ghost woman.
Viktor dove behind the counter, bottles shattering, liquor burning his graze. Nastya laughed, feral, slashing a Chechen's throat, blood arcing like paint.
Viktor grabbed a fallen AK, unloading—two RPG goons dropped, chests caved. The third fired—rocket screamed past, blowing the bar's roof to splinters. Viktor tackled him, smashing his face into the floor, teeth crunching under his fist. Silence hit, broken by Dmitri's curses and Ivan's grunts.
Nastya wiped her blade on a corpse, grinning.
Viktor stood, blood dripping, ribs on fire. He scanned the carnage—then saw it: Magomed's hand, clutching a burner phone