Chapter 16 - The Counter-Attack
By dawn, the cold mountain rain had washed the blood from the porch steps, leaving the forest smelling of wet pine and damp earth.
Nikolai had dragged the bodies of the Sokolov mercenaries into the woods, concealing them beneath a pile of rocks and fallen branches until clean-up crews arrived.
Inside the cabin, Roman sat at the rustic wooden table, his left arm secured in a sling made from one of Sienna’s wool scarves.
His encrypted burner phone sat on the table in front of him, connected to a high-powered satellite relay Nikolai had rigged on the roof.
Sienna stood by the wood-burning stove, preparing hot oatmeal and strong black coffee, her eyes occasionally drifting toward Roman with quiet concern.
The phone buzzed, vibrating against the wood with an incoming high-security video transmission from the Chicago syndicate headquarters.
Roman tapped the screen with his sound hand, answering the call without waiting for Nikolai to clear the channel.
The face of Viktor, the dock lieutenant who had argued in the Loop boardroom twenty-four hours ago, appeared on the small digital display.
“Roman,” the lieutenant said, his eyes darting nervously across the screen as he tried to assess his boss's physical condition and surroundings.
“We heard reports of a charter flight out of Vancouver disappearing off the radar near the Seattle corridor; is your situation secure?”
Roman leaned forward, his gray eyes cold and piercing as he stared directly into the camera lens of the satellite device.
“The Sokolov nephew is dead, Viktor,” Roman stated flatly, watching the lieutenant's facial muscles twitch with a micro-second of uncontrolled shock.
“He brought four shooters to an isolated grid in the Olympic Mountains that only three people in my inner circle had the coordinates to.”
The silence on the satellite link was profound, the background noise of the Chicago headquarters dropping away as the implication landed.
“Someone in the boardroom sold my flight path to the West Coast remnants,” Roman continued, his voice dropping into a dangerous, rhythmic baritone.
“They thought that if I was eliminated in Washington, the waterfront union bribes would fall under local lieutenant control without oversight.”
Viktor’s face turned pale, his hands coming up in a defensive gesture as he began to stammer out rapid, panicked denials to the camera.
“Roman! I swear on my mother’s grave I didn't leak the coordinates! We have been loyal to the Volkov name for thirty years!”
Roman didn't raise his voice, nor did he offer an accusation; he simply delivered an execution order with the calm precision of a surgeon.
“Lock down the Loop vault, Viktor,” Roman commanded. “No one leaves the building, no phone calls are made, and no accounts are accessed until my jet touches down O’Hare at midnight.”
He terminated the transmission with a single tap, tossing the burner phone across the table where it slid to a stop near Sienna’s coffee mug.
Sienna set a bowl of hot oatmeal in front of him, sitting down in the chair opposite his with her hands folded over the dark wood.
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“You know who betrayed you,” she said, not as a question, but as an observation from someone who understood the architecture of his world.
“Yes,” Roman replied, taking her hand in his right palm and squeezing her fingers gently. “And tonight, I am going to end the cycle permanently so we can finally live in peace.”
