The rain's stopped, but Times Square's a wet mess of lights and noise. Billboards flash, tourists shove past, and horns blare. I'm weaving through the crowd, hood up, Glock tucked under my jacket. Anya's next to me, her laptop bag bouncing as she keeps pace. We're hunting a lead on Romanov, the bastard who killed Nikolai and stole our gold. My backup knife's in my boot, and my blood's still hot from the safehouse fight. Dmitri's words calling me a failure burn worse than the bullet graze on my shoulder.
Anya's intel points to a club here, some high-end spot tied to Romanov's signal. She says he's ex-GRU, a Russian spy turned crime lord. No *Bratva* ties, just a ghost with drones and mercenaries. He's after our world, and I'm gonna stop him. But Nikolai's warning—trust no one—keeps me sharp. Anya's been off, hesitating, like she's holding back. And Dmitri? He didn't show up tonight, which ain't like him. I don't trust that bear one bit.
We stop across from the club, Neon Pulse, all glass and purple lights. Bouncers check IDs, and bass thumps through the walls. "Signal's inside," Anya says, pulling out her phone. Her fingers tap fast, eyes narrow. "It's a server, maybe a drop point. Romanov's crew uses encrypted apps."
"You sure it's not a trap?" I ask, scanning the street. After the rooftop, I'm not taking chances.
She shrugs, but her smirk's forced. "Only one way to find out."
I don't like it, but we've got no choice. "Stay close," I say, heading for the alley behind the club. We slip past a dumpster, and I pick the back door's lock. Inside, it's dark, the music louder, vibrating my bones. Strobe lights flash through a curtain, and I smell sweat and liquor. Anya hacks the security cam with her phone, looping the feed. "We're clear," she whispers.
We move into a hallway, passing drunk kids and waiters. I spot a door marked "Staff Only." That's our target. I nod to Anya, and she starts working the digital lock. My Glock's ready, but the crowd's making me itchy. Too many eyes. Then my phone buzzes with a news alert. "Times Square Bombing, Suspect at Large." My face flashes on the screen, grainy but clear.
"Anya," I growl, showing her. "What the hell?"
Her eyes widen. "Romanov's hackers. They framed you."
Before I can curse, sirens scream outside. Cops. The club's lights flicker, and a voice booms over the speakers. "Evacuate! Police raid!" The crowd panics, screaming, shoving for the exits. I grab Anya, pulling her toward the staff door. "Open it, now!"
She fumbles, swearing, and the lock clicks. We duck inside a small office, servers humming, screens glowing. Anya plugs in her laptop, typing like her life depends on it. "I'm in," she says. "Romanov's got a network here—orders, payments, plans."
"Find the gold," I snap, guarding the door. Footsteps pound outside, cops or worse. My heart's racing, but I'm steady. Then the screens flash red, and a new alert pops up my face again, labeled "Armed and Dangerous." Romanov's playing dirty, and I'm trapped.
"Vitya, got something!" Anya says. "The gold's tied to an auction. Crime lords, big players. It's happening soon, underground."
"Where?" I ask, but a crash cuts her off. The door splinters, and three guys in black vests burst in—Romanov's mercenaries, not cops. They've got rifles, moving like soldiers. I dive, tackling Anya behind a desk as bullets rip the air.
"Stay down!" I yell, firing my Glock. One merc drops, blood spraying. The others duck, returning fire. Sparks fly, servers exploding. I roll, grabbing a chair and throwing it. It smashes a merc's face, and I lunge, knife out. I slice his throat, quick and clean. The third guy aims, but I shoot first, dropping him.
Anya's still typing, face pale. "I got a location, subway tunnel, two days from now."
"Good," I say, yanking her up. "We're gone."
We sprint back to the hallway, but it's chaos—cops at the front, clubbers screaming. I spot a fire exit and kick it open. Cold air hits us as we hit the alley, but drones buzz overhead, red lights locking on. Romanov's tech. "Run!" I shout, shoving Anya toward the street.
Times Square's a warzone now. Cop cars block the roads, lights flashing. Tourists scatter, and I hear choppers above. I steal a motorcycle from a valet stand, hot-wiring it in seconds. Anya jumps on, clinging tight. "Go!" she yells, and I gun it, weaving through traffic.
Cars swerve, horns blaring. A drone dives, shooting darts. I lean hard, dodging, and fire my Glock one-handed. The drone sparks and crashes, but another takes its place. Cops are on our tail, sirens screaming. I cut through an alley, tires skidding, and hit Broadway, blending with taxis. Anya's shouting in my earpiece, guiding me to a safe spot in Harlem.
"Left!" she yells, and I swerve, nearly clipping a truck. A cop car rams us, grazing the bike. I grit my teeth, speeding up, and lose them in a tunnel. The drones fall back—Anya's jamming their signal. My heart's pounding, but I don't stop till we hit a quiet street, pulling into a garage.
I kill the engine, breathing hard. Anya slides off, shaking. "That was too close," she says, checking her laptop. "But I got the auction details. It's big, Vitya. Romanov's selling the gold to run the underworld."
I nod, wiping sweat from my face. "We hit that auction. No mistakes."
She hesitates, like she wants to say something. "What?" I snap.
"Nothing," she says, too quick. I don't buy it. Anya's hiding something, and it's eating me up. Nikolai said trust no one, and I'm starting to believe him.
Then my phone buzzes with a text from Ivan, one of the Bratva council. Dmitri's calling a meeting. Wants you out. Watch your back. I curse. Dmitri didn't show tonight, and now he's moving against me. That bear's playing his own game, and I'm not sure he's on my side. Elena's out there too, Nikolai's daughter, asking questions. If she digs too deep, she's dead.
I check my Glock, reload, and look at Anya. "We need a plan for the auction," I say. "And I need to deal with Dmitri."
She nods, but her eyes are worried. "Vitya, Romanov's not just a thief. He's building an empire. We're in deep."
"I know," I say, gripping my knife. Romanov's got my gold, Nikolai's blood on his hands. He thinks he's untouchable, but he's never met me. Times Square was a warning—I'm coming for him, and I'm bringing hell. But Dmitri's waiting, and Anya's secrets are piling up. I head back into the night, the city's pulse matching mine. This war's just starting, and I'm not losing.