Page 83 of Bratva Baby

“Yes,” she says. “Paper copies. Boxed, indexed, labeled his own way so he could find them later. He didn’t trust digital storage on its own, and neither did my father. Too easy to wipe. Too easy to alter. When men like them wanted something to survive a raid, a fire, a system scrub, or a convenient death, they kept paper.”

I look back at the truck. Another carton comes down.

“So if that label is his,” I say, “these aren’t just office files.”

“No,” she answers. “They could be the backup records he kept on old freight structures, and if Maks is moving them now, then he either found where Varga stored them or he found Varga and forced the location out of him.”

That lands hard.

She keeps going before I can interrupt. “And if that’s true, then the boxes could hold exactly what we need. Old route reconciliations. Vendor approvals. Reassignment sheets. Payment trails. Maybe even records that show how Maks folded his corridor into older Leonidov freight and reused the same structure Varga used to track.”

Kolya mutters, “So Maks found Varga’s archive.”

“Could be,” Sofiya says. “And if he’s moving it tonight, that tells us two things. First, the records are dangerous enough that he can’t leave them where they were. Second, Varga may already be in Maks’s hands.”

That sits badly in my stomach.

“Don’t let them split the set,” she says. “Varga organized things in batches. One page on its own may not tell you much, but a full box can show the route, the approval, the payment, and the handoff lined up together.”

I look at the third box again. Corner mark. Handwritten line. It isn’t fully clear from here, but it’s enough.

“We’re moving.”

“Okay,” she says, and I hear the strain she’s trying to hide. “Stay alive.”

She hangs up.

Kolya checks his weapon. “Now?”

“Yes.”

We move fast.

One of our men cuts toward the side door. Another comes up behind the trailer. Kolya goes for the driver. I go straight for the coat.

He sees me too late and reaches inside his jacket. I hit him before he gets the gun clear, drive him into the brick, wrench his wrist down, and slam it once against the wall until the gun drops to the concrete.

He twists and tries to pull free, but it isn’t enough.

“Hands,” I tell him.

He spits blood and curses at me.

Wrong answer.

I shove him over the loading edge hard enough to make him think about his choices, keep one forearm across the back of his neck, and strip his pockets. Phone. Keys. ID wallet. Folded transfer sheet.

Kolya has the driver on his knees by then. Our other man has the warehouse worker flattened against the trailer with both hands on the metal.

“Open the boxes,” I say.

Tape tears. The nearest carton opens and gives us exactly what we expected. Freight records. Not guesses anymore. Not instinct. Records.

Kolya looks into the box, then at me. “This is it.”

“No,” I say, unfolding the transfer sheet from the coat man’s pocket. “This is part of it.”

The coat man shoves hard off the loading edge and bolts for the side door.