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The warehouse smelled like rust and decade-old oil. I kept my back to the corrugated wall, breathing shallow, listening.
Too quiet.
The intel said the drop would be at the northeast loading bay, third crate from the door, package roughly the size of a laptop case. In and out, fifteen minutes max. Viktor's crew had used this location twice before. Same route, same timing, same sloppy predictability that made freelance work almost boring.
Except tonight, no one was here.
I checked my watch. 11:47 PM. Right window. Right night. I'd scoped the exterior on my way in—two vehicles in the yard, both cold. Fresh tire tracks in the gravel. Someone had been here within the last hour.
I moved along the wall, Glock low, scanning the rows of stacked pallets and industrial shelving that stretched toward the back of the building. Moonlight sliced through the high windows in pale geometric strips. My footsteps didn't echo. The concrete swallowed sound.
The crate was exactly where they'd said it would be.
That should've been my first red flag.
I crouched next to it, pulled the crowbar from my pack, and pried the lid. The wood splintered with a crack that felt too loud. Inside, packed in foam: one brushed aluminum case, combination lock, no external markings.
I ran my fingers over the surface. No tamper seals, no weight traps. I keyed in the code Viktor's handler had sent—three-seven-two-nine-one—and the locks popped.
Inside was a hard drive. Maybe two terabytes. Military-grade casing. The kind of thing that would survive a building collapse or a car fire.
And next to it, a folded piece of paper.
I didn't want to touch the paper. Something in my gut said leave it, take the drive, get out. But I'd been doing this long enough to know that ignored instincts were how people ended up in ditches.
I unfolded it.
Handwritten. Block letters. No signature.
*MARK WESTON. YOU'RE WORTH MORE DEAD THAN DELIVERED.*
I heard the scrape of a boot on concrete behind me.
I spun, Glock coming up, but I was already too slow. Three of them, spread in a shallow arc, weapons trained. Two rifles, one pistol. The guy in the middle was wearing a tactical vest and a balaclava, but I recognized the build. Stocky, favoring his left side. Old shrapnel wound in his hip.
"Kirill," I said.
He tilted his head. "You remember."
"You walk like your leg's about to give out. Hard to forget."
He didn't laugh. The other two didn't move. One of them had a phone in his off-hand, screen glowing. He wasn't texting. He was recording.
I kept my Glock level. "Viktor send you?"
"Viktor doesn't know you're here."
That landed wrong. Viktor was the one who'd brokered this job. If Kirill wasn't on Viktor's leash, then this whole thing was sideways from the start.
"Then who's paying you?" I asked.
"Does it matter?"
"It does if I'm supposed to be the product."
Kirill shrugged. "You've been a problem for a long time, Weston. Too many questions. Too many people you've burned. Someone finally decided you weren't worth the risk."
I took a step back. The crate was to my left. The aluminum case was still open. I could grab the drive, use the crate for cover, and make a break for the south exit. Fifty-fifty I'd get clipped on the way, but better than standing here waiting for them to decide when to shoot.
"I'm not handing over the drive," I said.
"We don't want the drive."
That stopped me.
Kirill lowered his rifle slightly. Not enough to be careless. Just enough to make a point. "The drive's a prop. You were always the target."
I ran the logic. If they didn't want the drive, then the job itself was bait. Which meant Viktor either set me up or someone fed him bad intel to pass along. Either way, I'd walked into a kill box.
"Who's the camera for?" I nodded toward the guy with the phone.
"Proof of delivery," Kirill said. "Client wants confirmation."
"Client got a name?"
"Not one you'd recognize before you die."
I moved.
I kicked the crate toward Kirill and broke left, firing twice as I ran. One shot went wide. The other caught the guy with the phone in the shoulder. He dropped, screaming. The phone skittered across the concrete, still recording.
Rifle fire cracked behind me. I felt the heat of a round pass my ear. I ducked behind a steel support column, breathing hard, and checked my mag. Eleven rounds left. Three hostiles, one injured. Not great odds, but I'd worked with worse.
I heard Kirill shouting orders in Russian. Footsteps spreading out. They were flanking.
I needed to move.
The freight lift was thirty meters to my right, built into the far wall. Old industrial cage elevator, manual crank. If I could get inside and get it moving, I could ride it up to the second-floor catwalk and find another way out. Long shot, but staying here was suicide.
I ran.
More gunfire. Sparks exploded off the metal railing as I grabbed the lift gate and yanked it open. The cage rattled. I threw myself inside, slammed the gate shut, and hit the lever. The lift groaned and started to rise.
Too slow.
Kirill and the other guy were closing in. I fired three rounds through the cage. One of them went down. Kirill dropped into cover behind a pallet stack.
The lift shuddered upward. Five feet. Ten. I could see the catwalk now, just above me. Almost there.
Then the lift stopped.
I looked down. Kirill was standing at the base of the shaft, one hand on the emergency brake lever.
He raised his rifle.
"Nothing personal, Weston," he said.
I aimed at him. He aimed at me. For half a second, we just stood there, two professionals who'd done this dance too many times.
Then he fired.
The round punched through my chest, just left of center. I felt the impact before the pain—like getting hit with a sledgehammer. My legs went out. The Glock fell from my hand and clattered against the lift floor.
I tried to breathe. Couldn't. My vision was narrowing, edges going dark. I slumped against the cage wall, blood spreading hot and fast across my shirt.
Kirill lowered his rifle. He didn't come closer. He just stood there, watching.
And behind him, the guy with the phone was back on his feet, camera still rolling, lens pointed straight at me.
They'd wanted this. Not just my death. The footage. Proof I was gone.
I tried to say something. Ask why. Ask who. But my lungs weren't working anymore. The air tasted like copper.
The last thing I saw was the red recording light on that phone, steady and unblinking, as everything went black.