Chapter 13: SECOND MARKER
The brand ignited at 8:17 PM.
I was reaching for a carton of lo mein when fire erupted along my forearm. The chopsticks clattered to the floor. I grabbed my wrist, hissing through clenched teeth as the coiled chain mark pulsed with heat that seemed to radiate straight to the bone.
[MARKER CONTRACT ISSUED.]
The System's voice cut through the pain—cold, mechanical, indifferent to my suffering. The same voice that had commanded me to kill Yuri Petrov. The same voice that would command me to kill again and again until one of us stopped existing.
[TARGET: DIMITRI VOLKOV. DESIGNATION: BRONZE. KILL WINDOW: 168 HOURS.]
Information flooded my consciousness. Not words—images, data, knowledge that hadn't existed a second ago but now felt like memories I'd always had. The download was violent, intrusive, like someone had cracked open my skull and poured ice water directly onto my brain.
Dimitri Volkov. Forty-three years old. Former Spetsnaz—Russian special forces, Alpha Group. Sixteen confirmed kills during Chechen operations, though the System's data suggested the actual number was significantly higher. Immigrated to the United States in 2003 under circumstances the download didn't clarify. Current occupation: protection racket coordinator for the Tarasov organization, Brighton Beach territory.
The pain faded to a dull throb. I unclenched my jaw and stared at the brand. The skin around it was red, irritated, like a fresh tattoo that hadn't finished healing. Every time a new contract came through, it felt like the mark was burning itself deeper into my flesh.
[KILL WINDOW: 167 HOURS, 59 MINUTES.]
The timer appeared in my peripheral vision. Constant. Inescapable. A countdown to either success or sensory oblivion.
Spetsnaz. Of course. Because a loan shark with four guards wasn't challenging enough.
I picked up the chopsticks from where they'd fallen. Wiped them on my jeans. Resumed eating cold Chinese food while my brain processed what the System had just handed me.
Volkov wasn't Yuri Petrov. That first target had been a bully with a gun—dangerous, sure, but predictable. A creature of habit and territory. I'd watched him for four hours and found his weakness in a cigarette break.
Volkov was a trained killer. Military discipline beaten into him through years of the most brutal special forces training on the planet. Combat experience in urban warfare, counterterrorism, and what the Russians politely called "special operations." The kind of reflexes that came from surviving firefights, not starting them.
And according to the data dump in my head, he traveled with two bodyguards at all times. Rotating shifts. Professional security drawn from the same pool of ex-military contractors who'd served alongside him. Not street muscle—trained operators.
The lo mein tasted like cardboard. I ate it anyway. Calories were fuel, and I'd need every advantage I could get.
The System's pushing harder. Testing limits. Making sure its investment can handle escalation.
I remembered what Chen had said about the brand—old magic, very binding. Whatever the System was, it wasn't content with easy kills. It wanted me to grow. To become something more than the trembling mess who'd vomited after shooting Yuri Petrov.
I finished the food and cleared the coffee table. The stolen tourist map of Brooklyn spread across the surface like a battle plan waiting to be drawn. Brighton Beach was already circled in red from my library research—Russian mob territory, heavily patrolled, full of people who'd notice an outsider asking questions.
I marked Moskva first. The restaurant on Brighton Beach Avenue where Volkov conducted most of his business. According to the System's download, he owned the building. Ate there every day around noon. Met with associates in the back room. A fortress disguised as a dining establishment, complete with armed staff who doubled as security.
Not the primary approach. Too many variables. Too many witnesses.
The gym was more promising. Iron House Fitness, three blocks from the restaurant. Volkov worked out every afternoon at three o'clock with the kind of religious dedication that only military training could instill. Creature of habit—the discipline that kept soldiers alive in combat also made them predictable in peacetime.
The gym would have fewer civilians during that window. More controlled environment. Potential isolation opportunities in the locker room or parking area.
I marked it with a star.
The social club was a death trap. Private membership. Armed doormen. No way in without an invitation from people who would never give one to a stranger asking about their boss.
I drew lines between the three locations. Calculated walking distances, estimated travel times, identified potential escape routes. The subway station at Brighton Beach was four blocks from the gym—if I could make it there, I could disappear into the underground network before any pursuit organized.
I need to see it. Maps aren't enough.
Tomorrow. Early. Get to Brighton Beach before Volkov's routine started. Find a vantage point. Watch. Learn. Document everything.
Just like with Petrov.
Except Petrov's people hadn't been trained to spot surveillance. They'd been thugs playing gangster, not professionals who'd spent years in hostile territory learning to identify threats before they materialized.
Volkov's people would know what to look for. The wrong posture. The too-casual gaze. The stranger who appeared in the same location twice. All the tells that screamed "operative" to anyone who'd been trained to see them.
[KILL WINDOW: 167 HOURS, 42 MINUTES.]
I picked up my Glock from the nightstand. Ejected the magazine. Counted the rounds.
Seven.
I'd started with fifteen. Eight rounds fired in Chinatown, taking down two Triad enforcers who'd been Chen's real targets all along. I hadn't replaced the ammunition since. Hadn't even thought about it.
That's stupid. Careless. The kind of mistake that gets people killed.
Seven rounds against a former Spetsnaz operator with military training and two armed bodyguards. The math wasn't encouraging.
I needed ammunition. I needed better clothes for blending into Brighton Beach's Russian community. I needed a backup weapon in case the primary failed. I needed—
Gold coins. Which I don't have enough of.
One coin left after the whiskey at the Continental. Charon's brochure had listed ammunition as a service, but the prices required the kind of funds I hadn't accumulated yet.
Chen might help. He'd said the Tong had "occasional need" for outside contractors. But going back to Chinatown meant owing more favors, getting deeper into a relationship I didn't fully understand.
The brand pulsed again. Softer this time. Almost encouraging, like a handler reminding an asset of their purpose.
Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Kill Volkov or lose my senses. Message received.
I reloaded the Glock and set it on the table next to the map. Tomorrow's reconnaissance would tell me whether this contract was even possible with my current resources. If the gym approach looked viable, I might be able to complete it with seven rounds and Ghost Mode.
If not...
Then you improvise. You adapt. You find a way or the System takes your sense of taste, and then your smell, and then your touch—
I cut off that train of thought before it could spiral.
One hundred sixty-seven hours. Seven days. One week to plan and execute the assassination of a former special forces operator protected by trained security.
The first contract had taken me five days, and I'd left a witness who could still identify me. The second needed to be cleaner. Faster. More professional.
I folded the map and tucked it into my jacket pocket. Set my alarm for 5 AM. Early train to Brooklyn. Full day of surveillance. Back before nightfall to process what I'd learned.
The Glock felt heavier than usual when I set it on the nightstand. Not from physical weight—from implication. This weapon had killed four people. It would kill more before the System was finished with me.
Ex-Spetsnaz. Two bodyguards. Russian mob territory.
Sleep came slowly, interrupted by fragments of tactical planning that my brain wouldn't release. Approach vectors. Sight lines. Fallback positions.
[KILL WINDOW: 166 HOURS, 31 MINUTES.]
The timer kept counting down behind my eyelids, a constant reminder that time was the one resource I couldn't buy, steal, or shoot my way into acquiring.
The System isn't playing nice anymore.
I checked the Glock's chamber one more time before closing my eyes.
This target might actually shoot back.
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