Chapter 2 - The Khnetsov brothers waited inside the warehouse with their own security detail: 12 men with Kalashnikovs and attitude, the kind of Russians who still thought Cold War mentality was charming.
“Valentino,” the older brother, Dmitri, called out. “You bring army to business meeting? This is insult.”
“I bring insurance,” Valentino replied smoothly. “Open the containers. Let’s see what I’m buying.”
While the men postured and negotiated, Daphne’s eyes traced the warehouse geometry. Catwalks above. Loading doors on 3 sides. Windows at 40 ft, most broken or covered. She counted 17 potential firing positions for a sniper.
Her gaze stopped on the north window, third floor of the adjacent building.
There was a reflection, barely visible, a faint glint of glass catching ambient light.
Not a window.
Windows did not move. This had moved.
A scope adjusting.
She keyed her comm.
“Sniper. North building. Third floor. Center window.”
Rico’s voice crackled back. “Negative. We swept that building. It’s clear.”
“It’s not clear.”
Daphne moved closer to Valentino, her voice low.
“Someone’s lining up a shot. Right now.”
Valentino did not turn. He did not break his conversation with Dmitri. But his hand moved to his jacket.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Rico,” Valentino said into his comm. “Pull 2 men. North building, third floor. Now.”
“Boss, she’s—”
“Now.”
Two of Valentino’s soldiers peeled off, moving toward the exit. Daphne watched the window. The reflection shifted again. Whoever was up there had seen the movement. They were repositioning, or preparing to fire before they lost the shot.
“Get down,” Daphne said.
She did not wait for Valentino to respond. She grabbed his shoulder and pulled him sideways just as the window exploded. The crack of the rifle shot came a fraction of a second later, suppressed and professional. The round passed through the space where Valentino’s head had been and punched through a steel container behind him.
Chaos erupted. The Russians scattered, weapons drawn, shouting in their native language. Valentino’s men formed a perimeter, returning fire at shadows.
Daphne was already moving. She grabbed a pistol from the nearest soldier’s holster, a SIG Sauer, and sprinted toward the warehouse’s side exit. She could hear Rico shouting for her to stand down, but she was done taking orders from amateurs.
She crossed the alley in 4 seconds, reached the adjacent building’s fire escape, and climbed. Her muscles remembered this: the burn, the rhythm, the tunnel vision of pursuit.
By the time she reached the third floor, the sniper was gone.
But he had left evidence: a brass casing, still warm. 7.62. Professional grade.
On the windowsill, barely visible in the darkness, was a small black marking, a symbol she recognized immediately: a viper coiled around a dagger.
The Syndicate’s calling card.
Her blood ran cold.
They had found her, and they had just tried to kill Valentino to send her a message.
Everyone around you dies.
She descended the fire escape and found Valentino waiting in the alley, Rico and 4 soldiers flanking him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were locked on hers.
“There was a sniper,” she said quietly.
“I know. My men found the position.” Valentino stepped closer. “They also found this.”
He held up a phone. On the screen was a photograph taken from the sniper’s nest: telescopic view, high resolution, and in the center of the frame, perfectly focused, Daphne’s face.
“So,” Valentino said, his voice deadly calm. “Want to tell me why a professional hit man just tried to kill me but took the time to photograph you first?”
Daphne looked at the image, at her own face captured through crosshairs. The wall she had built between past and present had not just cracked. It had shattered completely.
“Because,” she said, “I’m not hiding anymore. They found me. And now everyone near me is a target.”
May you like
Valentino smiled, not with warmth, but with recognition.
“Good,” he said. “I was getting bored.”
