"My apologies, soldier of fortune," Volkov said, placing a heavy arm around Wyatt’s shoulders. There was an eerie sincerity in his voice, like a man genuinely sorry for the inevitable pain he was about to inflict. Wyatt tested the weight on his shoulders. No escaping that grip. Any delusion of breaking free abandoned him now, he moved his

  and away from the hilt of his knife. Volkov wasn’t just strong—he was impossibly strong.

  "Come," Volkov continued, still grinning. "The Colonel has a good opinion of you, and we wouldn’t want to make him wait."

  As they passed the barricade, Wyatt studied him in the dim lighting. Hairy was an understatement. His thick black mane swallowed most of his features, leaving only glimpses of skin—a network of scars crisscrossing what little he could see.

  “Better you than me.” The quiet whisper came from one of the Russian soldiers as Wyatt passed. That startled him. Even they don’t want to be alone with him?

  Beyond the barricade, the world was a study in organized chaos. Soldiers rushed past, burdened with crates and papers. Engineers hunched over equipment, making hasty repairs. Tents had sprung up, forming makeshift districts, each with its own rhythm of activity.

  Wyatt barely had time to take it in before Volkov’s grip tightened, guiding him forward.

  "Got to say, I’m impressed," Volkov mused.

  Wyatt realized the space around them was widening. Men moved out of their way, casting quick glances—not at him, but at Volkov. A cold sweat prickled at Wyatt’s brow.

  "Not many take me on and survive," Volkov continued, his voice light and amused.

  Wyatt exhaled slowly. "Is that something to worry about?"

  Volkov chuckled, a pleased rumble deep in his chest. "Indeed." His grip tightened.

  Wyatt clenched his jaw as the pressure bore down on his shoulders. Even through his gear, he could feel the force of it—felt the bruises already forming.

  "You had unseen help," Volkov admitted, tilting his head as though studying a particularly interesting specimen. "But your reaction speed, your steadfastness, your will—those are things to cherish." His fingers dug in just slightly harder. "As frustrated and angry as I am right now," he said, voice still light but with a sharp undertone, "breaking such a useful tool without reason isn’t smart. Especially when you don’t even understand what you were protecting." The words lingered in the air, cold and deliberate. Then, finally, Volkov loosened his grip. Not enough for Wyatt to relax, but just enough to let him know who was in control. They were approaching the administrative building now, a grand structure marked by bullet holes and charred from fire. Inside, the chaos became quieter, more structured. As they passed through the hallways, the air grew heavier. Somewhere in the distance, someone was crying.

  They didn’t go up the stairs but instead followed a hallway deep into the building, eventually stepping into what had once been an expensive, well-furnished conference room—now repurposed as an office. The figure at the center was familiar to Wyatt. As soon as they entered, the colonel looked up and smiled—a warm, familiar grin that only faltered for a brief second when he noticed Volkov was in the room too.

  "Wyatt! My favorite merc!" he greeted, his voice carrying a mix of genuine joy and thinly veiled frustration. Then, his tone shifted as he addressed the others. "Leave us."

  The small group around him wasted no time dispersing. The air didn’t grow heavier, exactly, but colder—like a shift in pressure before a storm.

  "Come, come, over here," the colonel beckoned. Then, he turned his attention to Volkov. "Release him already."

  Volkov obeyed immediately, but Wyatt noticed the way his massive frame tensed, his ability to shift between moods effortless yet unnerving.

  "Wyatt!" The colonel’s voice remained jovial, his stubby frame bouncing forward with an easy energy. His bushy mustache barely contained his lingering smile.

  "Sir, a pleasure to make your acquaintance again," Wyatt replied, caught somewhere between shock and wariness.

  "Relax a bit! There's no need to be so stiff. Come now, follow me."

  Much like Volkov, the colonel placed a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, guiding him toward the table. Despite his cheer, the air remained thick with unspoken anticipation. Wyatt noticed that, unlike before, Volkov didn’t follow. He remained on the periphery, watching, like a predator waiting for its moment. Orlov, meanwhile, was pouring two small cups of vodka.

  "Cheers! To being alive."

  Wyatt, knowing the man and knowing he wouldn’t be poisoned, drank. The alcohol hit his stomach hard, snapping him out of his daze. Smart. The old man wasn’t wasting time.

  He sat down without waiting for an invitation. Orlov raised an eyebrow but nodded, taking a seat across from him.

  "I must say, you were a surprise, old friend," Orlov commented, his expression unchanged, his smile lingering beneath his mustache.

  "As were you," Wyatt replied, repeating his earlier sentiment.

  "So, what was your mission?" Wyatt considered his answer for a moment before responding.

  "We were paid upfront at our temporary station in a town in Makran," he said. Orlov nodded.

  "Our job was to reach this city..." Wyatt hesitated. "I don’t even remember the name of this place." At that, Volkov—who had been circling them like a great cat—stopped briefly.

  "Peace, Brother, peace," Orlov said to the big man, his tone firm. Then, he exchanged a glance with Wyatt—one that clearly said: You needn’t worry about me. Worry about him. Wyatt swallowed. Orlov poured him another glass, and he drank.

  "So, we arrived," Wyatt continued. "We noticed there was a fight going on. Managed to get close enough to get a read on the situation from a building—"

  "The one that collapsed?" Orlov cut in, his calculating gaze sharpening despite his relaxed demeanor.

  "Yes."

  "Was that Marshall’s idea?"

  "No, mine," Wyatt answered honestly. There was no reason to lie, not that he even knew what there was to withhold. Orlov barked a laugh.

  "I expected no less from you," he said. "Once I realized which group was blocking our advance the most, it was a pleasure to fight against you one last time." The sudden weight in his voice hit Wyatt harder than the vodka.

  "So the others..." he started, but Orlov was already shaking his head.

  "I’m sorry. They’re gone. While I was coordinating the joint advance, he commanded the front." Wyatt didn’t need to ask who he was.

  From behind Orlov, Volkov reappeared, his presence causing a flicker of unease in the Russian colonel. The big man remained silent, but he did something—one of his hands slipped beneath his coat, scratching at something. A small object fell, clinking softly against the floor. Even from a distance, Wyatt could tell it was a bullet.

  Volkov smiled, but there was something off about it. Tension pulled at the edges of his mouth. In the dim lighting of the office, as the day faded outside, Wyatt noticed the faint shine in Volkov’s silver eyes. The scars on his skin—some of them weren’t old. Some were burn marks. Recent ones.

  "I... I—"

  "I know," Orlov interrupted gently. "I know you need space, son. But understand that we need information. I came all the way here in service of the Motherland, and my associate here..." He gestured vaguely in Volkov’s direction. "Well, he serves higher powers. Can you keep answering us?"

  Wyatt wanted to ask about the bodies—where they were, how it had happened. But then he glanced at Volkov as the giant stepped back into the shadows. Perhaps that wasn’t a good idea. Instead, he took a single deep breath and pressed forward.

  "Yes. The person who hired us wanted us to retrieve a package from inside a hospital, then escort it to the rendezvous point. That was it. We were paid everything upfront, with a bonus at the end."

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  "And the person who hired you?"

  "Some guy in a suit. Plain-looking. Plain suit, plain tie, plain everything. Said his name was John Smith." Orlov snorted.

  "I think, Brother," he muttered, turning to Volkov, "that we’re going to reach nowhere through that route." Wyatt could hear Volkov grinding his teeth.

  “And once you got here? After you split?” Volkov pressed, his voice sharp with expectation. It was obvious that Wyatt’s target and Volkov’s were the same. As for Orlov... Wyatt glanced at the colonel and realized the man had been sent not just to lead the attack, but also to keep an eye on Volkov. Great.

  “Once I broke from the rest, I took a detour and arrived just as you were shelling the hospital.”

  Orlov nodded once more. “We caught you on the drone footage. That was a crazy maneuver,” he remarked, pouring himself another drink.

  “Well, you didn’t leave me with much of a choice.”

  “Please, mercenary, we don’t have time for that,” Volkov scoffed, the disdain in his voice palpable. Orlov shot him a warning look.

  Wyatt exhaled, steadying himself. “Once inside, I was met by... operatives? I don’t know how else to describe them. They were armed, well-trained, and disguised as local forces—police and the like.”

  Orlov nodded again. “Go on.”

  “I was nearly shot, but a hooded figure intervened.”

  At that, Volkov moved like a striking snake, closing the distance between them in an instant. He was suddenly inches from Wyatt’s face.

  “Do you remember their face? Their name? Do you know what organization hired you?” His breath smelled of old leather and chemicals, his quick reaction unnerving.

  A tense silence followed before Orlov’s hand landed on Volkov’s chest, pushing him back with deliberate force. The disparity in size between them was striking—the colonel was practically dwarfed by the giant, yet he didn’t waver. In the end, Volkov let out a low huff and resumed pacing, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the shock had finally worn off, but Wyatt didn’t feel as afraid anymore.

  “I don’t know,” Wyatt admitted. “I only remember the eyes. The one who intercepted me had deep brown eyes, and she sounded older… The other two—one had just given birth. She had her hood down when I arrived, and she looked Scandinavian. But she didn’t stay. She handed her baby to the third one, grabbed a gun, and went to fight your advance.” Orlov’s expression remained neutral, but Volkov had stopped pacing.

  “The third one?” Orlov prompted.

  “Amber eyes. She was the one who went with me. Other than cryptic messages about ‘having all the time in the world,’ and ‘trusting the feithful’ she didn’t say much.” Wyatt hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “Well… aside from the baby.” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth now that he had finally said them aloud.

  “Baby?” Orlov repeated, glancing at Volkov.

  “Yes, the one we’re here for,” Volkov answered with complete certainty.

  Orlov blinked, stunned. He turned back to Wyatt. “So let me see if I understand this correctly—you were sent to retrieve a package, only to find that the package was a mother and a child. But the one who was supposed to be the mother… wasn’t the one who actually gave birth?”

  “Yes… I don’t understand either.”

  “And you didn’t really ask,” Orlov noted, though there was no judgment in his voice.

  Wyatt sighed. “No… I know I should have. But for some reason, I felt compelled to but I didn’t. Realities of the trade.” Wyatt shrugged That made Volkov pause mid-step. Yet after a moment, he resumed his pacing.

  “And after that?” Orlov prompted again.

  “We moved through unseen passages and tunnels, intending to reach the sewers and lose ourselves there. But we were intercepted by…” Wyatt’s gaze shifted to the big man now watching him intently. The difference between the beast he had fought and the composed figure standing before him was striking, but those silver eyes… they were the same.

  “Son,” Orlov said softly. “I know that part. I know it in detail. Please, continue.”

  Wyatt swallowed and nodded. “We closed the door behind us and got lost in the sewers. Eventually, we made our way to an old lapis lazuli mine in the mountains, where we waited for pickup. That was it.”

  “What did they use for pickup?”

  “Some kind of high-tech vehicle, unmarked. It hummed and had active camouflage. It came from deep in the mountains and left in the same direction.” At that, both Russians leaned forward expectantly.

  “Oh, right,” Wyatt said, reaching into his jacket. “The woman I escorted gave me this. She meant for me to drink it but forgot to ask for it back.”

  He placed a small flask on the table. The moment Orlov and Volkov saw it, their expressions darkened. The silver, the gold, and—most importantly—the engraving.

  Volkov exhaled sharply. “It’s them.”

  “And they wanted us to know it was them, too… cocky bastards,” Orlov muttered. “I’ve got to say, brother, this is surprising, to be sure.” Orlov rubbed his chin. “I think your theory has merit.”

  “Merit? This is proof!” Volkov’s voice rose in pitch.

  To prevent an outburst, Orlov raised both hands. “Let’s finish with our friend here before we continue. And we’re giving him back his property.” Volkov had already pocketed the flask but, after a moment of hesitation, he reluctantly handed it over.

  “There isn’t much more to tell, really,” Wyatt admitted. “They left. All of them had very ornate, heavy armor and weapons, and then… they were gone.” Wyatt shrugged. He had nothing else to give them. A heavy silence settled over the room, stretching for a full five seconds—long enough for the weight of everything unspoken to press down on them. The only sounds were the faint creak of Volkov’s boots as he shifted his stance and the distant hum of machinery somewhere in the building. At last, Orlov exhaled and turned to Volkov.

  “I think this is enough.” His tone was calm, but firm. “He has no reason to lie, and he has nothing else to give us.” Volkov didn’t respond immediately. His sharp, calculating gaze remained locked onto Wyatt, studying him like a predator contemplating whether to strike. The intent was clear—he wanted to keep him. Wyatt met his stare, refusing to flinch. He knew better than to show weakness.

  “Other than the engraving on the flask,” Wyatt continued, his voice measured, “I didn’t see any other distinctive markings. The one in charge actually wore less armor than the others. Lighter, more flexible. That’s all I’ve got.” Volkov let out a slow breath through his nose, his expression unreadable. A muscle in his jaw tightened. Orlov took a sip from his glass and set it down with a deliberate clink, drawing Volkov’s attention. “We’re done here.”

  For a moment, it seemed Volkov might argue. His fingers twitched, his stance bracing as if he were about to push back. But Orlov met his gaze without wavering, and something unspoken passed between them.

  With a final huff, Volkov turned away, pacing the room like a caged animal. The air was still thick with tension, but the moment had passed.

  Wyatt exhaled, forcing himself to relax. He wasn’t sure if he’d just been dismissed or if the conversation had only bought him time. Either way, he was still breathing. For now.