Page 4 of Tracking Shadows

“What are you talking about?” I shout, my voice cracking as I struggle against the ties. “What is that? What’s going on?”

But my mother is crying now, her hands covering her mouth as she stares at the bag on the table. My father’s face is a mask of horror, his eyes darting from me to the men holding them at gunpoint.

“This is the price you pay,” the man with the briefcase says, his tone almost mocking. “You thought you could get out, but no one gets out alive.”

Before I can fully process what he’s saying, one of the men pulls the trigger. The gunshot is deafening in the small room, and I watch in horror as my father crumples to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

“Dad!” I scream, my voice raw and broken.

My mother turns to me, her eyes wide with shock, her mouth moving, but no sound coming out. Then she too collapses, a single shot to the chest. The world tilts on its axis, and I’m screaming, thrashing against the ties, desperate to get to them, but it’s too late. They’re gone. Just like that, they’re gone.

“Take him,” the man with the briefcase orders, devoid of any emotion.

I’m barely aware of the hands grabbing me, dragging me out of the room. My mind is a whirl of disbelief, terror, and grief, but most of all, a burning, searing hatred. They killed my parents right in front of me. They killed them, and now I know why.

They were smuggling cocaine. My parents—my mom, who made cookies from scratch, and my dad, who coached my soccer team—were criminals. And now I’m a criminal’s son.

The men throw me into the back of the van again, and this time, I don’t struggle. I don’t have the strength. The van’s doorslams shut, and the darkness closes in around me. My parents are dead, and I’m alone.

And that’s when I realize, with a cold, sick certainty, that I’m never going home again.

***

I take a deep breath, shaking off the memory that’s clawing at the edges of my mind. I can’t afford to go there, not now. The past is a black hole that I’ve long since learned to avoid. Sergei Marakov will get what’s coming to him. I'll make sure of that. And it won’t be Irina Petrovna, with all her righteous vengeance, who gets to deliver the final blow. No, that honor is mine. I’ve earned it in blood and sweat, and I’ll be damned if anyone else takes it from me.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, staring at the rundown building in front of me. The bar is a dump. It's one of those places where the floors stick to your shoes, and the air reeks of cheap beer and bad decisions. I hate places like this. They’re reminders of everything rotten in the world, of the filth that people try to drown themselves in when they’ve got nothing left to lose. But I’m here for a reason, and I’ll swallow my disgust, like I’ve done a thousand times before.

Irina’s inside, waiting for me. I’ve heard all about her. How she’s spent years chasing Sergei, how she’s carved out a reputation for being relentless, unforgiving. But none of that matters to me. All I care about is getting to Sergei first, putting a bullet in his head, and walking away with the satisfaction of knowing that I finally buried the past where it belongs.

I kill the engine and step out of the car, the cool night air doing nothing to wash away the sour taste in my mouth. The neon sign above the bar flickers weakly, as if even it’s ashamed to be seen here. I roll my shoulders, shake out the tension in my neck, and stride toward the entrance.

The moment I step inside, the smell hits me: stale alcohol, smoke, and the faint undertone of sweat. The place is dimly lit, with only a few patrons scattered across the room, hunched over their drinks like they’re praying to gods long dead. I push down the revulsion threatening to crawl up my throat and force a casual smile onto my face.

This is just another job. Keep it professional. Keep it clean.

I spot her almost immediately, sitting in a booth in the back, a cigarette held between her fingers. Even from across the room, there’s something about her that catches me off guard. She’s pretty. No, scratch that, she’s stunning in a way that’s both effortless and dangerous. The kind of beauty that makes you forget, just for a second, that she could probably kill you without breaking a sweat.

Her eyes are locked on me the moment I walk in, and there’s no mistaking the way she sizes me up, like she’s already decided I’m not worth her time. I force my legs to move, crossing the sticky floor until I’m standing in front of her.

Up close, she’s even more striking. Dark hair pulled back, cold blue eyes that seem to see straight through me, and a face that’s all sharp angles and fierce determination. She’s trouble. I knew that before I got here, but now it’s staring me in the face.

“Mind if I join you?” I say, nodding to the empty seat across from her, trying to keep my tone light, almost playful. Small talk, break the ice, get a read on her.

She doesn’t reply right away; she just takes a long drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a slow, measured exhale. Her eyes never leave mine, and I can feel the weight of her scrutiny, like she’s trying to peel away the layers and see what’s really underneath.

“You’re late,” she says finally, like she’s already decided she doesn’t like what she’s found.

I feel a smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. Of course, she’s the type to skip right to the point. “Fashionably so,” I reply, sliding into the seat across from her.

But she doesn’t smile. She doesn’t do anything except flick the ash off the end of her cigarette and continue to watch me with those sharp, assessing eyes. I know right then that this partnership, if you can even call it that, is going to be anything but easy. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chapter 2 – Irina

Bars like this are second nature to me—dim, smoky, filled with the kind of people who’ve seen more than their share of darkness. Places where deals are made, secrets are traded, and no one asks too many questions. I’ve spent years frequenting dives like this. This is my world, and I know how to navigate it better than most.

I sit in a booth near the back, the table sticky under my fingers, waiting for the man Dmitri insisted I work with. Alexei Romanov. I don’t know much about him, and I don’t like that. In my line of work, not knowing can get you killed.

I take a drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl around me as I consider what little Idoknow. Dmitri vouched for him, said he’s got skills—strategic mind, good in a fight, but more of a charmer than a killer. That last part makes me uneasy. Charm doesn’t get the job done, and it sure as hell won’t help us take down Sergei.