MOSCOW STREETS, SUNDAY MORNING
Lev slumped in a cleaning company van, shoulder wound seeping through gauze, pain a rabid beast gnawing his bones.
Avan, his last loyal thug, drove, eyes darting like a trapped rat. A second van led ahead, Boris and Fallan inside, C4 bags ticking like a death knell.
Lev gripped a burner phone, voice gravel over the line to Boris. "Update me—call when you pass the guard, again in the basement." Boris grunted, "Got it, boss."
At an intersection, the vans split, each bound for one of NexCorp's twin towers—empty Sunday targets for the Americans' million-dollar stock crash.
MOSCOW JAIL, MORNING
A prison guard's keys clinked, unlocking Dmitri's cell.
Orange jumpsuit sagging, Dmitri's cocky grin was dead, replaced by a hollow stare. Jail had crushed him—Lev's absence, Nastya's advice. "Time to save my ass," he whispered, decision set. He'd told the guard to summon the detectives.
The guard led him to a private room, the door creaking like a coffin lid. Volkov and Irina waited, grin cold as permafrost.
Dmitri sat, voice flat. "I'm talking. Heard Lev on a call—big payment, million maybe, got him grinning like a drunk. Those Americans in your photo? Maybe they gave him the job."
Irina's eyes slit. "When?"
Dmitri paused, memory clicking. "Three days before Victory Day—parade noise, I remember."
His voice hardened. "That's all. What about me?"
Volkov's laugh was a shank's twist. "Pray it leads somewhere, kid. Then you're lucky."
They left, door slamming, Dmitri's mutter lost: "Screw you."
MOSCOW STREETS, MID-DAY
Zara sat in a black SUV, Aslan at the wheel, her phone buzzing with Nastya's voice.
"One of my men spotted a cleaning van—still rolling," Zara said, voice ice-cold. "No sign of the second."
Nastya's tone crackled, urgent. "Where?"
"South, Komsomolsky Prospekt," Zara snapped. "My men are tailing. Don't fuck this up, princess." She hung up, eyes blazing, Lev's ghost her prey.
KOMSOMOLSKY PROSPEKT, MID-DAY
Nastya floored her sedan, engine roaring past Moscow's gray decay.
Viktor crouched in the back, prepping a silenced sniper rifle, sliding it into a briefcase, face a mask of vengeance.
Nastya screeched to a stop outside a graffiti-scarred two-story building, walls bleeding rust.
Viktor shouldered his gear, stepping out. "Don't miss," Nastya said, smirking wickedly.
"Never," Viktor growled, a grin made of pure hate, Lev's blood his only aim. He vanished inside, boots thudding.
Upstairs, Viktor set up, rifle scope sweeping traffic, air thick with oil and doom.
The cleaning van rolled into view, white paint stark. He zoomed in—no Lev, just Boris driving, Fallan beside him. "Shit," Viktor hissed, pulse hammering.
No time to curse—he refocused, exhaled, and fired. Fallan's chest burst, blood spraying the dash.
Boris screamed, swerving, nearly clipping Nastya's car, parked roadside.
Boris slammed the brakes, door flying open.
Nastya pounced, hands like steel, yanking him out, smashing his face into the window—glass shattered, blood gushing. She jammed her Makarov to his skull, dragging him to the van's rear. "Open it," she snarled.
No C4—just mops, buckets, bullshit. "Where's the boom?" she hissed, cocking the gun.
Boris pointed, shaking. "Hidden panels— in case of guard check cover." Nastya glanced, and Boris lunged for his pistol.
A wet crack - the man dropped instantly, blood misting the window as Viktor's shot rang out.
Nastya flinched, then grinned, dark humor glinting. "You're welcome," Viktor muttered through his scope.
Nastya dragged Boris's corpse off the road—Sunday's empty streets a gift, no witnesses.
She rifled the dash, finding Boris's phone, a pinned location: NexCorp Tower One. Her eyes narrowed. "NexCorp got two towers. Lev's at the other." She sprinted to her car, Viktor joining, rifle slung. "I know where he is," she said, dialing Zara, voice sharp.
"NexCorp Tower Two—Lev's there, C4 loaded."
NEXCORP TOWER TWO, AFTERNOON
Zara and Aslan prowled the parking lot's edge, shadows in a concrete maze, pistols drawn, senses razor-sharp.
The lot was a ghost town—security cameras dark, their lenses blank, guard post empty.
Zara's eyes slit, a predator's instinct kicking in. "Cameras off, guard gone—Lev's here," she whispered, voice venom.
Aslan nodded, his bulk moving silent, a cutlass at his hip glinting in the dim light.
They crept forward, boots soft on asphalt, scanning for the cleaning van.
Zara's gaze locked on it, tucked in a shadowed corner, white paint smeared with dirt. They approached, Zara's pistol raised, Aslan covering her flank.
The driver's window was cracked—she peered in, finding the guard slumped, throat slashed, blood pooling on the seat, eyes glassy. "Sloppy," Zara muttered, dark humor curling her lip. "Lev's losing his touch."
Aslan's eyes darted, spotting a rusted basement door half-hidden by crates, its lock pried open. "There," he growled, voice low.
Zara nodded, grip tightening—they'd found Lev's bolt-hole, his C4 lair.
Viktor and Nastya screeched into the lot, tires smoking, joining Zara and Aslan at the door.
Weapons ready, they moved as one, silence heavy as cordite.
The basement stairs loomed—then hell erupted.
Lev and Avan, waiting, unleashed a storm, AKs roaring, bullets chewing concrete, sparks flying.
Aslan shoved Zara behind a pillar, taking a burst to the chest, blood gushing as he crumpled, dead, cutlass clattering.
Nastya screamed, gut-shot, crawling to cover, hand pressed to her stomach, blood slick between fingers.
Viktor and Zara moved like phantoms, flanking, returning fire.
Lev's bullets ran dry, Avan's too—Viktor's Makarov tore Yuri's throat, dropping him in a red heap.
Zara's shot shattered Lev's knee, his scream echoing off damp walls.
They closed in, predators on a wounded wolf, C4 bags at Lev's feet, his empire's last gasp.
Lev slumped, eyes shut, ready for the end.
Viktor and Zara exchanged a glance—who'd claim the kill?
Lev's eyes cracked open, confusion flickering. "What's the hold-up?" he rasped, dark humor his final spit in death's face.
For a split second, he saw his father's face in Lev's—not in features, but in the resignation. A man who knew the system had won.
They fired—Viktor's bullet through his heart, Zara's through his skull.
Lev crumpled, blood pooling, empire dead. Sirens wailed, close, cops circling. Aslan lay still, Nastya groaned, clutching her wound.
Viktor hauled her up, arm under her shoulder, as Zara bolted—no way she'd face cuffs.
Outside, two police vans screeched up, lights flashing. Viktor braced—no escape.
Then Rook roared in, not with his sniper but an assault rifle, spraying chaos, shredding police tires, glass exploding. Cops ducked, pinned.
Rook sprinted over, helping Viktor drag Nastya to a waiting car.
They peeled out, leaving Lev's corpse, C4, and a burning lot for the cops closing in.
MOSCOW STREETS, AFTERNOON
The car tore through Moscow's underbelly, Nastya bleeding, Viktor's hands slick with her blood. Rook drove, face stone, GROM's ghosts in his eyes.
Sirens faded, chaos behind. Lev was dead, Dmitri caged. Nastya's breath hitched, voice weak. "Got him," she whispered, a grim smile flickering, Bratva hers—if she survived.
Viktor's laugh was raw, dark. "Hell of a reunion."
Moscow's streets, blood-soaked and merciless, swallowed them, a city of wolves fed at last.