Page 40 of Where the Wind Whispers

Vasily was a wanted man—wanted by two of the most powerful factions of the Vory v Zakone—and if he’d been smart, he might have reached out to his politician friend and asked that he find him a way out of the country.

Hiding in Chicago wasn’t his brightest idea, and despite his eagerness to finish his business with Vasily, Kaz had learned his lesson. If it seemed too good to be true, it had to be. And for that reason, he didn’t go alone to the safe house that Vadim had been given the address to.

Rus, Konstantin, and Kaz—along with a number of others Vadim had sent along with them—sat in the back of Kolya’s Hummer with the surly one behind the wheel as he navigated through late-day traffic.

Despite Konstantin’s whistling in the background—a low, haunting sound that resonated in the truck—Kaz tuned them all out, focused instead on what awaited him at the address they were drawing closer to.

It was a shipping yard, Kaz realized as they drew nearer, and he could just see the shipping containers on the other side of the fence. Before they reached the entry point, however, Kolya killed the lights to his truck, slowing to a crawl as he parked on a side road and killed the engine.

There was no conversation as they each got out of the car, going around to the trunk as they strapped on bulletproof vests and the special case Kolya kept in the trunk of his car was opened, unveiling the AK-47s he had hidden inside.

Kaz didn’t bother with one. Instead, he checked over his Glock one last time. When he finished, Rus clapped a hand on his shoulder, as he often did when they were younger and he wanted to offer brotherly advice—this time wasn’t quite like the others.

“Ready?”

As he asked this, the others Vadim had sent along were already at the gate, cutting away the padlock that kept the gate closed to those who didn’t belong. With one sharp snap of the tool against the metal, it dropped to the ground.

Kaz nodded once. “Let’s get this done.”

As the first shot rang out, sending them jogging toward the entrance, Kaz thought about the warning Vadim had given them before they took off.

With the mayor’s cooperation, they had more than just his cooperation, but his help in another matter. Someone hearing gunshots was inevitable, and it wouldn’t take long before they were calling the police to report it.

Kaz hadn’t the slightest idea as to how they would handle that situation, but Vadim had assured him in that vague, all-knowing way of his that he had already taken care of the matter.

As they neared the gate, Kolya and Rus in front, Kaz and Konstantin behind, the eldest Boykov said, “We have a twenty-minute rule to get in and get out before one of Chicago’s finest rides by to reports shots being fired.” He looked at Kaz and asked, “That enough time for you?”

Even if it weren’t, he would have to make sure it was.

Kaz didn’t waste any more time, rushing through the gate as his heart pumped anew with each step he took. The gunshots were impossibly loud, nearly drowning him in harsh echoes, but he kept moving, keeping his head down, and Rus close at his heels.

On the south end of the yard, they entered a building through a thick, steel door, one that had been installed after Vasily had made a home inside it, but with a makeshift key, they were in within seconds.

One of Vasily’s guards turned in a rush, but he was too late to stop the bullets Rus drilled into him.

“Go,” Rus said as he nodded his head at the staircase while still firing at the other end of the hall.

Kaz didn’t hesitate, starting up the stairs with a swiftness he hadn’t felt in years, but as he reached the top, the loud crack of a gunshot brought him up short. When it was quiet once more, Kaz called, “Don’t make this hard on both of us, Vasily.”

A snarled, Russian curse sounded a moment before Vasily was pulling the trigger again in quick succession.

Vasily was too proud of a man to bow before any man—it was why they both had the stars tattooed on their knees—so Kaz hadn’t expected anything less. He had come here expecting this to be hard, to defy death in a means to finally put his father down.

His finger wrapped around the trigger, Kaz swung around the corner, firing before he even had a clear view of what awaited him on the other side of the landing.

Fresh holes appeared in the door at the end as Kaz fired off more rounds, but just as he was about to pull the trigger once more, he heard the unmistakable grunt a moment before something heavy clattered to the floor.

He didn’t waste time, crossing the floor and shoving the door open, on guard and ready for anything Vasily had planned.

Vasily’s hand was bloody, a few of his fingers missing, his gun at his feet as he simultaneously tried to grab hold of his only weapon and tend to his wound. The scent of vodka was strong in the room, so strong that Kaz’s nose stung inhaling.

He didn’t remember much from that night except the glint of the blade Vasily had used to slice open the skin of his neck. He remembered his voice, the smug quality that spoke so candidly about his impending death, but what Kaz didn’t remember was how his father had looked that night.

Since he had last seen his father, the man had lost weight, his face thinner, his cheekbones more pronounced. A tiredness on his features that hadn’t always been so prevalent.

Before he could reach the weapon, however, Kaz lifted his gun once more, only feeling the slightest pangs in his chest as he pulled the trigger, watching as the heated metal tore through more flesh.

A brief image of his father flashed in his mind—back when they were still father and son, their relationship not tainted by the demands of the Bratva. How caring he had once been, eager to give his time and affection if only for the adoration Kaz showed him in return.