MOSCOW 2019 - FLASHBACK
Dawn clawed gray over the Moskva River, mist thick as a gravedigger's breath.
A body drifted in the black current, arms splayed like peeled willow branches, flesh bloated and waxen, shimmering with river slime.
The figure bobbed, coat a tattered veil, face sunken into shadow, as if the water had gnawed its soul to bone.
Several miles Downstream, Zara strode onto a splintered dock, boots grinding fish guts and broken glass. Her breath steamed, eyes cold as rusted steel.
Two fast boats rocked in the filth, her Chechen crew—scarred, AKs slick with dew—slamming crates of powder, guns, and C4.
Diesel fumes choked the air, thick with treachery's stink.
Nastya hovered, blade twirling, voice a shard. "Make the deal snappy, no fuck around."
Zara's lip curled, scanning the fog. She nodded toward the river's bloated shadow, swaying in the haze. Her men nodded back
MOSCOW, PRESENT - DAWN
Chechens struck at dawn, Moscow's streets bursting like rotten flesh.
In Zamoskvorechye, four Bratva corner boys slung baggies under a dying lamp, fog eating their laughs.
A van screeched up, doors exploding. Aslan led Zara's wolves—machete flashing, eyes rabid. He hacked the first boy's chest, ribs shattering.
The second drew a pistol; Aslan's machete severed his wrist. A Chechen's shotgun pulped the third's face. The fourth bolted—a wire caught his throat, body twitching in a crimson flood as the van tore off.
Noon brought slaughter. A Bratva stash house in Lefortovo buzzed—three retailers counting rubles, AKs close.
Doors splintered, Chechens storming like hellhounds. The first retailer swung his rifle—Aslan's crowbar crushed his jaw, teeth spraying.
The second lunged, knife out; a Chechen's boot snapped his spine, silenced pistol shredding his lungs. The third begged, crawling—he got a machete buried in his skull.
Aslan shoved a gaunt kid—new lieutenant—forward, kicking corpses. "Sell our shit, or you're meat." The kid gagged, ash in his mouth, as flames devoured the house, smoke choking the sky.
Dusk fed the frenzy. A Bratva dealer in a Khovrino dive bar swapped baggies with a buyer, vodka clinking. Zara's men slipped in—phantoms with blades.
One drove a hatchet through the dealer's neck, bone snapping, blood fountaining across tables.
The buyer scrambled, screaming; a Chechen's garrote bit deep, nearly decapitating him, eyes bulging as he choked.
The dealer's partner fired wild grazing a Chechen—Another Chechen's knife gutted him.
Aslan tossed keys to a scarred girl—new lieutenant—stepping over twitching flesh as sirens wailed.
A DIM BRATVA WAREHOUSE, STACKS OF C4 CRATES LOOMING LIKE TOMBSTONES. THE AIR SMELLS OF CORDITE AND DAMP CONCRETE
Nastya trailed a finger through the dust on a crate, her nail chipping at the NATO stock code stenciled on the side. "Since when do we need enough booms to flatten a city?"
Lev didn't look up from a detonator he was wiring. "Insurance."
Dmitri kicked a loose brick, scowling. "Against what? The fucking Red Army?"
"Against losing." Lev's gold-plated TT lay beside him, glinting in the single bulb's swaying light.
Nastya's laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. "Spoken like a man who expects to run."
Lev finally met her eyes, his smile a knife-slash. "Spoken like a daughter who forgets—I taught her to always have an exit plan."
He tossed the detonator to Dmitri, who fumbled it.
The silence thickened. Somewhere, water dripped. Nastya pocketed a blasting cap—casual, like picking up a dropped coin—and left without a word. Dmitri stared after her, then at the C4.
A runner stumbled in, face split, blood dripping. "Chechens, boss—they're butchering us! Boys torn open, stashes razed, retailers dead—they're planting their dogs, stealing everything!"
Lev's fist smashed a weak desk, wood cracking, TT pistol skidding. "Dogs! I said we carve first!" he roared, seizing the runner's throat, nails drawing red. "Get the others—now! Or I rip your heart out!"
He flung the man out, grabbing his phone, fingers smashing texts, spit flying.
MOSCOW STREETS, EVENING
Nastya's sedan skidded to Viktor's curb, engine snarling.
He slid in, ribs screaming, Makarov heavy. "Lev's howling," she snapped, eyes razors. "Urgent. City's bleeding."
Viktor exhaled, tense. "—Chechens shredding our boys like pigs."
Nastya floored it, tires shrieking. "It's a massacre." She flicked a glance, cold.
"Hacker? Grisha, Lyublino. See him, don't fuck up." Her tone sliced—trust frayed, air thick with dread.
They hit Lev's compound, gravel spitting. Dmitri's jeep roared up, door slamming.
"Chechens slaughtered more," he growled, limping, hands blood-caked. "New spots, old routes—bodies stacked."
LEV'S COMPOUND, NIGHT
Lev's study burned—red carpets, bear head glaring. Lev paced, TT spinning like a scythe, eyes deranged.
Viktor, Nastya, and Dmitri stood taut, air choking with hate.
"I said we would strike first!" Lev screamed, smashing a chair, wood exploding.
"Chechens rip my boys, torch my streets, spit on my name!" He spun, voice cracking, desperate. "Find their dens, their crates, their dogs! Wipe them out—every bastard, every scrap of their turf! I need it!"
Nastya's eyes met Viktor's—fear flickering. Dmitri gripped his knife, craving slaughter.
Viktor stayed stone, gut roaring—Lev was a bomb, ticking.
MOSCOW OUTSKIRTS, MIDNIGHT
Lev stood in a gutted warehouse, TT hidden, facing two Americans—suits crisp, faces like tombstones. No names, no games. The air crackled, heavy with doom.
"I'm close," Lev said, voice tight, palms slick. "Just… snags. Streets Will be mine."
The taller suit stepped close, voice venom. "Your little hide and seek is of no concern to us, we need results on the news." His partner's eyes burned, hand grazing a Glock. "chaos, now. Not excuses."
Lev nodded, throat raw, sweat beading. "You'll get it. Soon."
The Americans walked, shoes clicking like triggers. Lev's mask cracked, fist trembling, breath ragged.
The game dwarfed Moscow, and he was bleeding time.
Outside, the city wailed—streets drenched in gore, a pyre begging for a spark.
Viktor's sedan screeched to a stop outside a crumbling tenement, engine coughing.
His face was a mask of desperation—eyes wild, jaw clenched, sweat beading.
The encrypted flash drive in his pocket burned—two attempts left before it wiped, erasing proof of Lev's hand in the GROM explosion.
This bastard better knows his shit, he thought, knuckles white. He stepped out, Makarov heavily, and knocked twice on the hacker's door.
It swung open fast, like the guy was waiting.
Grisha—skinny, jittery, glasses smudged—grinned too wide. "Petrov, yeah? Come in."
Viktor followed, tense, into a dim room cluttered with screens and cables. "Need that drive cracked, right?" Grisha said, already rambling about firewalls and vodka. "Nastya tipped me—said you'd show."
Viktor's gut twisted—Nastya? Suspicion flared, but he tossed the drive. "Get in it. No games."
Grisha chattered on, fingers flying over keys, screens flashing code. Twenty-nine minutes of clacking later, he crowed, "Got it!" The driver's lock blinks green.
Viktor's Makarov snapped up, barrel to Grisha's temple. "Back off." He yanked the laptop, copied the files to his phone—names, dates, maybe Lev's GROM betrayal—heart pounding.
Grisha froze, hands high, babbling excuses. Viktor tossed a wad of rubles. "Good job. Keep your mouth shut." He bolted, paranoia gnawing