DALLIUS ALEXANDRONOVICH SERGEVEV'S POINT OF VIEW
Gunshots crack through the air. The reports jolt me fully alert, sharp against the low thrum of the yacht's engines beneath my feet.
I draw my sidearm from inside my suit jacket and fix my eyes on the door across the room. We were meant to dock at Subic Bay for business, but I know now I will not make it that far.
They baited me into their snare. I was fool enough to let them.
I click my tongue and watch the door handle turn.
When it swings open and the first man steps through, I curve my lips in a grin. "Nakonets-to ty pokazal svoye istinnoye litso… kha?" I speak in Russian, each word deliberate.
("You finally showed your true color... huh?")
The man smirks and levels his gun at me. His men fan out behind him, weapons raised in unison.
"Da, ya chertovski ustal zhdat'... Pakhan. Chto tebya udivilo?"
("Yeah, I was freaking tired of waiting... Pakhan. Were you surprised?")
I laugh again, keeping my posture steady as my mind races for an escape route. I cannot bring myself to harm them.
"Chto so vsem etim? Ty kiska, da?"
("What's with all of these? Being a pussy are we?") I taunt him.
A shot rings out. Pain sears through my shoulder, warm blood soaking into my shirt.
"Khm? Ty vse yeshche slishkom naiven, Boss"
("Hmm? You're still too naive, Boss.")
I laugh despite the ache. "I ty vse yeshche slishkom khorosh v akterskom masterstve, Persival'." ("Hmm? You're still too naive, Boss.") I say his name at last.
His smile broadens. He moves toward me, tossing a device into the corner of the room—it clatters against the wall and begins its steady countdown.
He stops before me and grips my collar, his fingers tight on the fabric.
"Blin, ty takoy oblazhavshiysya, Boss." ("Damn, you're so fucked up, Boss.") He grins as he speaks.
I meet his gaze with cold calm. "Akh, da? Nu togda obyazatel'no dovedite nachatoye do kontsa." ("Oh yeah? Well then, make sure to finish what you've started.")
He releases my collar with a sharp jerk and turns toward his men, who stand watching us in silence. The bomb's ticking fills the space between breaths.
Before he exits, he faces me once more and fires a volley of bullets into my body. I do not flinch or fight back. I let him have his way.
His men laugh as he speaks, his words lost to me over the ringing in my ears. I read his lips as they file out: Take care, Dallius.
The bomb detonates the moment I throw myself through the window behind me. The blast hurls me clear of the yacht as it tears apart and begins to sink. My body slams into the sea, cold water shocking every nerve ending.
Salt water engulfs me, heavy and frigid. By some grace I manage to catch hold of a piece of floating debris—metal or wood, I cannot tell. I rest my arm and head on it, gasping for air. Shards of glass have cut the left side of my face; the sting tells me scars will follow.
It is midnight. Moonlight and starlight silver the dark water around me.
"Damn that freak," I mutter.
Percival earned every one of his five awards with that performance. The bastard played his part too well to be real.
"Fuck," I curse as another wave of pain ripples through me.
The current pulls hard and I have no idea where I drift. We had a plan—but I never agreed to be left this far from shore, with no island in sight.
I am in the middle of the ocean.
I can do nothing but laugh. If he failed to see this through, I will bury him alive myself. My life hangs in the balance for this work—and god, will I even survive to see it done?
Sharks will scent my blood soon enough. Reaching land would be little more than wishful thinking.
I could die here.
But I will not let that happen. We have work left to do, and this is only the start.
Even as cold water seeps into my wounds and blood clouds the sea around me, I kick my legs, pushing toward whatever horizon I cannot see.
—
"Aughh, fucking shit." I cough hard, my chest burning as I realize I am still breathing.
I wake on a beach, cold to the bone and barely conscious. A light glows somewhere in the distance, cutting through the darkness.
I force myself to stand and stagger toward it, my vision blurring and my mind swimming. I do not know what waits there—I follow only instinct.
Then a woman's voice cuts through the haze, loud and sharp. Everything is out of focus; I can barely make out shapes, only hear her words clearly.
She shouts something—asking who I am—but I am too exhausted to form a clear thought. My head feels as if it floats free of my body.
"H-Huh..? Who am I?" My voice comes out hoarse and cold.
"Yes! Who are you?! I'll bash your head in with this if you try to do anything!" I She sounds terrified, yet her volume does not waver.
"W-Who are you?" I ask again, hoping she will quiet down soon.
Women can be so loud. Her shout rings out once more.
I find myself laughing despite everything. Images flicker through my mind—absurd visions of a future with this woman I cannot even see.
"C-Crazy woman," I murmur before darkness pulls me under again.
THIRD PERSON'S POINT OF VIEW
"Ahh shit! I'm such an idiot." Percival paces back and forth across the cabin, his hands running through his hair again and again.
He chews on the hotdog in his hand, teeth worrying at the meat as he tries to steady himself. He knows he overdid the performance—got so lost in the role he forgot the plan. He thought an island lay nearby, but there was nothing but open water.
Now he is sick with worry that their act might have become a reality. That he might have actually killed Dallius, his Pakhan.
The plan was clear from the start. The Bratva had grown too tangled with traitors and spies, so he and Dallius agreed to flush them out. They would stage his betrayal in front of every member they suspected, make the deception look real.
But he let the part consume him. He went too far.
"Fuck!" He yanks at his hair, pacing faster as the hotdog grows limp in his hand.
"Woah. YA luchshe zakazhu tebe grob zaraneye, ty tak ne dumayesh'?"
("Woah. I better order you a coffin in advance, don't you think?")
"Shut up! Kaz, you're only making me more on edge."
The man in black laughs, his sniper rifle balanced on his knee as he cleans it carefully.
"Kakoy u tebya plan seychas? Ne volnuysya slishkom sil'no, my oba znayem, chto Boss ne tak uzh i slab. Nam sleduyet sosredotochit'sya na nashem sleduyushchem shage. Do togo, kak my prizemlimsya na Rossiyu, ostalos' vsego tridtsat' minut."
("What's your plan now? Don't worry too much, we both know that Boss is not that weak. We should focus for our next move. There's only thirty minutes before we land on Russia.")
Percival lets out a long breath and rubs his temples.
"Da, on zhe ne umret, verno?" ("Yeah, he's not going to die right?") His face pales as he imagines his boss's fury. "Maybe I'll be the one dying soon instead."
"Deserve," Kaz says simply, tightening a screw on his weapon.
The private plane is preparing to land in Russia. Ten hours have passed since the first phase of their plan unfolded, and now they return to the organization for what comes next.
They will spread the word that Dallius Alexandronovich Sergevev is dead, betrayed by his most trusted man.
The news will draw out the traitors like carrion birds. They will fight and scheme for the empty throne, revealing themselves as they reach for power over Russia's largest mafia organization.
Percival grins as the plane touches down smoothly on the runway.
"Now then?" He says, his expression hardening. "Let's start the hunting game."