Page 52 of Tracking Shadows

I clench my jaw.

I can see the way doubt clings to her, but this isn’t the time for her to falter. We’re too damn close to let everything slip away now.

“We’re going after him,” I say firmly, standing up and brushing the dust off my jacket. “We finish this.”

Irina doesn’t move. She just sits there, still as a stone, her face pale and her eyes distant. Like she’s checked out completely.

Damn it! Not now.

I kneel down in front of her and grab her arms, pulling her up to her feet. She’s like a rag doll, barely standing, so her weight is heavy in my hands.

“Irina,” I snap, holding her face between my hands and forcing her to look at me. “This isn’t over. You hear me? Until you see your brother, until you see for yourself that he’s beyond saving, you don’t get to give up.”

She blinks slowly, her eyes trying to focus on mine, but I can see the exhaustion pulling at her. I tighten my grip on her face, making sure she hears every word. “He’s still somewhere out there. We’re going to find Sergei, and we’re going to get your brother. You understand?”

For a second, nothing. Then, a small nod.

“No.” I shake her lightly. “I need to hear you say it. Do you understand?”

Her lips part, and she finally breathes, “Yes.”

“Good,” I say, releasing her face and stepping back. “We move now. Thirty minutes isn’t far.”

She straightens, though I can still see the weight pressing on her shoulders. But at least she’s standing, and right now, that’s enough.

I tap my earpiece again. “Katya, keep tracking Sergei. We’re heading out now.”

“I’m on it,” she replies. “I’ve got eyes on the route. He’s not moving fast.”

I glance at Irina, making sure she’s steady enough to walk. We make our way off the rooftop and into the shadows of an alley. The city around us is dark, quiet in the way cities never really are.

As we hit the street, Katya’s voice crackles again. “I’ve got a vehicle parked two blocks away. Get in, and I’ll guide you straight to the warehouse.”

“Got it,” I mutter, steering Irina in the direction Katya pointed out.

I catch the way Irina winces with each stride, her arm still cradling her ribs where Sergei’s fists landed. The bruises are fresh, purpling her pale skin, and every step looks like it’s costing her.

We find the old sedan Katya stashed away and slip inside. I take the driver’s seat, glancing at Irina as she settles into the passenger side. She leans back, eyes half-closed, her breathing shallow, and I can tell she’s fighting through the pain. Her handstremble slightly in her lap, and she hasn’t spoken a word since we left the building. I want to reach out, to tell her it’s going to be okay, but words feel hollow right now.

Katya’s voice clicks on through the dashboard GPS. “Keep to the back streets. I’ve mapped out a route that’ll get you there fast without attracting attention.”

I nod and start the engine. The rumble of the car feels loud between us. Irina doesn’t flinch; she just stares out the window, her face set in a blank, distant expression. I push the pedal down, speeding through the narrow streets, focusing on the road ahead.

By the time we approach the warehouse, the tension in my gut is coiled tight.

“Katya, we’re here,” I whisper into my earpiece. “Any movement?”

“None,” she responds quietly. “But be careful. The building’s huge. He could have anything set up in there.”

“Copy,” I reply, then glance at Irina. “You ready?”

“Yes.”

The warehouse is a hulking shadow at the edge of the industrial district. I pull the car to a stop a block away and kill the engine. We move in silence, slipping through the shadows until we reach the back entrance Katya had pointed out.

The door creaks as I push it open, and we step into the darkened space. The air is thick with the smell of old paint anddust, and the walls are covered in shadowy canvases. My eyes adjust, and as I take in the surroundings, a chill runs down my spine. The paintings, at first glance, are stunning masterpieces, the kind you’d expect to find in the world’s finest galleries. But as I look closer, the beauty twists into something grotesque. The images are disturbing—warped faces, twisted bodies, and scenes of violence that make my stomach churn. It’s like staring into someone’s worst nightmares, captured in vivid color.

“What the hell . . .” Irina whispers, barely audible.