Chapter 8 - Nightfall Over Lake MichiganThe private Boeing business jet touched down at a private airstrip outside Chicago under a freezing, starless midnight sky.
Dmitri had assembled a tactical strike force of twenty elite Sokolov operatives—men trained in counter-terrorism and urban combat, equipped with state-of-the-art encrypted gear and armored vehicles.
I sat in the back of a bulletproof Mercedes sprinter van, wearing a heavy black wool trench coat, my hair tied back in a sleek ponytail. Though I was heavily pregnant, fear had completely evaporated, replaced by an intoxicating rush of adrenaline and righteous vengeance.
"The target is an abandoned steel mill on the south side of Lake Michigan," Dmitri briefed his men, pointing at a holographic tactical map projected on the van's central screen. "Viktor Petrov uses it as a primary distribution hub for his syndicate. He’ll be waiting in the main warehouse office, expecting our envoy to deliver the signed transfer papers."
"And us?" I asked, looking up at Dmitri.
"We aren't delivering papers, Elena," Dmitri said, a dark, dangerous smile curving his lips. "We’re delivering a message."
The convoy rolled silently through the industrial docklands, parking half a mile away from the sprawling, rusted hulk of the old steel mill. The wind howling off Lake Michigan bit through our clothes, but inside the convoy, the atmosphere was thick with hyper-focused tension.
Dmitri turned to me, handing me a lightweight Kevlar vest.
"Put this on," he instructed gently.
"Dmitri, I can't—"
"Put it on," he repeated, his gray eyes softening for a second as he looked at my stomach. "I brought you out of the mountains to protect you, not to put you in the line of fire. But I know you need to be here to watch this empire fall. Stay behind me, and do not let go of my arm."
I nodded, sliding the tactical vest over my sweater.
Moments later, the synchronized assault began.
There was no warning, no negotiation. With a deafening CRASH, the massive steel loading doors of the warehouse were blown off their heavy industrial hinges by a controlled tactical charge.
Flash-bang grenades flooded the cavernous interior with blinding white light and thunderous concussive blasts.
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Before Petrov’s armed guards could even raise their submachine guns, Dmitri’s men descended from the overhead catwalks like shadows, neutralizing the syndicate thugs with ruthless, surgical efficiency.
Dmitri pulled me through the smoke and flashing red emergency lights, walking straight toward the elevated glass-walled office overlooking the warehouse floor.
