Chapter 1: The Chair at the Table

The rain was falling in relentless, gray sheets over the industrial district of South Seattle by the time my three-vehicle convoy pulled into the alleyway behind the Duwamish River warehouse.

The building was a dilapidated, brick-and-corrugated-iron structure that had once served as a fish-processing facility. It sat at the end of a dead-end street, surrounded by rusted shipping containers, overgrown blackberries, and the murky, oily waters of the river.

Inside my lead Escalade, the air was thick with the smell of gun oil, leather, and silent tension.

Viktor sat in the passenger seat, racking the bolt of his suppressed MP5 submachine gun with a crisp, metallic clack.

“Thermal imaging shows six hostiles inside the main floor, Boss,” Viktor reported, staring at a handheld tactical monitor connected to a drone floating high above the rain clouds. “Two more on the roof. They’ve got heavy surveillance cameras covering the main loading dock.”

I sat in the rear seat, wearing a dark, custom-tailored tactical suit beneath a heavy black wool coat. In my right hand, I held a silver Sig Sauer P226—the weapon I had carried since the day I took over my father’s empire.

“No survivors,” I said, my voice flat, cold, and devoid of emotion. “I want Nikolai alive until I get the location of the man who sent him that page. Everyone else is disposable.”

“Understood,” Viktor nodded, turning to the radio. “Teams Two and Three, execute perimeter breach on my mark. Three... two... one... go.”

The night exploded into precise, controlled violence.

The side door of the warehouse was blown inward by a quiet breaching charge. Before the smoke could clear, my men poured through the opening like shadows. The suppressed pops of submachine gun fire echoed softly inside the structure—phut-phut-phut—followed by the dull thuds of bodies hitting the concrete floor.

I stepped out of the Escalade, stepping over a puddle of rainwater, and walked through the breached doorway.

The interior of the warehouse smelled of damp salt, diesel fuel, and fresh copper. Three bodies lay crumpled on the ground near a forklift, their weapons skittering across the oil-stained concrete.

Viktor led the way toward the back office—a elevated glass room built into the second-story mezzanine that overlooked the floor.

We climbed the steel stairs quietly. Through the reinforced glass window of the office, I could see a man sitting at a desk illuminated by a single desk lamp.

He was forty years old, with shaved hair, a thick beard, and a long, jagged scar running down his throat. He wore a heavy leather jacket, and his left hand rested on top of a weathered manila folder.

Engraved clearly between the thumb and forefinger of that left hand was a dark, seven-pointed star.

Nikolai Voronov.

Viktor didn't bother knocking. He kicked the heavy door off its hinges, sending the frame splintering into the room.

Nikolai lunged for the drawer of his desk, reaching for a weapon, but before his fingers could touch the metal, I raised my Sig Sauer and fired a single round into his shoulder.

BANG.

The heavy 9mm bullet slammed into his collarbone, throwing him backward against the wall. He let out a wet, guttural scream, collapsing into a sitting position on the floor, blood quickly soaking through his leather jacket.

I stepped into the room, kicking his fallen weapon under the desk, and pulled a wooden chair out, sitting down directly in front of him.

“Hello, Nikolai,” I said quietly.

Nikolai coughed, spitting a glob of dark blood onto the floorboards, his teeth stained crimson as he glared up at me through slitted, hateful eyes.

“Hale...” he wheezed, clutching his bleeding shoulder. “You... you were supposed to be dead two years ago...”

“I get that a lot,” I replied, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Where is the page, Nikolai?”

Nikolai let out a raspy, painful laugh. “You’re too late, Hale. You think you’re the hunter? You’re just a dog chasing his own tail. The man who sent that page... he knows everything about you. He’s been inside your house. He’s been inside your head.”

I reached down, grabbed him by his collar, and yanked his heavy body upward until his face was six inches from mine.

“Give me a name,” I whispered, my eyes burning into his.

Nikolai grinned—a terrifying, blood-soaked smile that sent an icy spike of realization through my stomach.

“I don't have a name,” Nikolai wheezed. “But he told me to give you a message if you ever found me.”

“What message?”