Chapter 14: LITTLE ODESSA
Brighton Beach smelled like salt and fried dough and something I couldn't name—a distinctly Eastern European quality to the air that reminded me of places I'd never actually visited in this body. Maybe the original Matt Radcliff had deployment memories bleeding through, or maybe it was just my imagination filling gaps.
The boardwalk was crowded despite the September chill. Old women in headscarves shuffled along with shopping bags. Young men in tracksuits clustered around benches, watching everything and everyone with the casual alertness of territorial predators. Families pushed strollers while speaking Russian, or Ukrainian, or something Slavic that my ears couldn't differentiate.
I bought a newspaper from a stand—the New York Post, because I needed something English—and found a bench with a sightline to Moskva restaurant's front entrance.
Wrong clothes. Wrong walk. Wrong everything.
I'd dressed in my best approximation of casual tourist—jeans, a dark jacket, sneakers that had seen better days. But I moved wrong. Held myself wrong. Every instinct from my military training screamed that I was a target, not a resident. My posture was too straight. My eyes too alert. My hands positioned for quick access to the concealed Glock rather than relaxed at my sides.
The old women noticed. Their eyes tracked me for a beat too long before dismissing me as irrelevant—some lost American wandering into the wrong neighborhood.
The young men noticed too. And they didn't dismiss me.
I pretended to read the newspaper while watching them in my peripheral vision. Three of them, maybe twenty to twenty-five years old. Gold chains. Tracksuits with designer logos. The universal uniform of Russian street soldiers who wanted everyone to know they were connected.
One of them said something in Russian. The others laughed. I didn't need to understand the words to know they were talking about me.
Stick to the plan. Watch the restaurant. Document Volkov's movements.
At 11:47 AM, the target emerged from Moskva.
Dimitri Volkov in the flesh was exactly what the System's data had promised—tall, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and the kind of posture that screamed military even in civilian clothes. He wore a leather jacket over a dark sweater, expensive but practical. His eyes swept the street with automatic threat assessment before he stepped fully outside.
Two men flanked him. One older, gray at his temples, moving with the measured economy of a long-term professional. One younger, thick neck, hands always visible and empty—ready to draw or grapple at a moment's notice.
They walked east. I gave them a thirty-second head start, then folded my newspaper and followed.
The route from restaurant to gym was a seven-minute walk through Brighton Beach Avenue's commercial district. Volkov moved with purpose, nodding to shopkeepers who greeted him with obvious respect, shaking hands with an old man outside a bakery who practically bowed.
A local celebrity. Everyone knows him. Everyone respects him.
Or feared him. In neighborhoods like this, the distinction was academic.
I stopped at a street vendor's cart when Volkov paused to speak with someone. The pirozhki were still hot from the oil—beef and onion, the vendor promised in heavily accented English. I handed over three dollars and bit into the pastry while maintaining visual contact with my target.
The food was good. Flaky dough, savory filling, the kind of comfort that made you forget you were conducting surveillance for a murder. It reminded me of something—a deployment, maybe, somewhere cold. MRE supplements bought from local vendors. The small pleasures that made bad situations survivable.
Volkov finished his conversation and continued toward the gym. I followed at a distance, eating the pirozhki, trying to look like a tourist who'd wandered into Little Odessa searching for authentic Eastern European cuisine.
Iron House Fitness occupied a converted warehouse at the end of a block dominated by auto repair shops and wholesale distributors. Red brick, small windows, a faded sign above the main entrance. The front door was glass—easy to see through, easy to be seen.
A security camera mounted above the entrance tracked left to right in a slow sweep. I counted the timing. Twenty seconds per cycle. Plenty of blind spots if you knew exactly where to stand.
But I didn't need blind spots anymore. I had Ghost Mode.
Volkov and his entourage disappeared inside. I circled the block.
The rear of the building opened onto a narrow alley cluttered with dumpsters and stacked pallets. A fire exit—metal door, no external handle, hinges on the inside. It would only open from within unless you had the right tools.
Or unless you were already inside when you needed it.
No cameras visible back here. The loading dock looked abandoned, rust eating at the metal frame. A good position to wait. Good sightlines for watching both the alley entrance and the fire exit.
I walked the perimeter twice more, memorizing every detail. The neighboring building was a plumbing supply warehouse—closed on weekends according to the sign. The alley had two exits, one at each end. A fire escape on the adjacent building provided high-ground access if I needed an elevated position.
The gym is the approach. Catch him in the locker room. Isolated. Vulnerable.
I checked my phone. 2:30 PM.
According to the System's data dump, Volkov worked out for approximately ninety minutes. He'd be inside until four o'clock at least. That gave me time to continue surveillance, document his departure pattern, maybe follow him to the social club to complete the picture.
By 3:15, Volkov emerged with only one bodyguard—the younger one with the thick neck. The older guard must have stayed with the car or left earlier. I hadn't seen him exit.
They drove away in a black Mercedes. I watched until the vehicle disappeared around the corner, then made notes on my phone. License plate. Direction of travel. Time of departure.
Restaurant noon. Gym three. Social club probably eight. Predictable. Exploitable.
I turned to leave, satisfied with the day's reconnaissance.
That's when I saw him.
Young guy. Maybe twenty. Tracksuit, gold chain, the universal uniform I'd noticed on the boardwalk earlier. He was standing across the street, phone raised, pointed directly at me.
Our eyes met.
He didn't look away. Didn't pretend he'd been taking a selfie or checking his email. Just held my gaze while his phone camera clicked twice more, then pocketed the device and walked into a nearby convenience store like nothing had happened.
My heart rate spiked. Cold sweat prickled my neck.
He photographed you. He knows you were watching the gym. Watching Volkov.
I forced myself to maintain a casual pace as I walked toward the subway station. Not running. Not looking over my shoulder every five seconds. Just another tourist who'd gotten lost in Little Odessa and was now heading back to wherever tourists came from.
But I wasn't a tourist. And now someone had evidence.
How long before that photo reaches Volkov? How long before they start looking for the guy who spent an afternoon watching their boss?
The answer was: not long enough.
I'd planned for a week of surveillance. Careful observation. Building a complete picture of Volkov's routines before making a move. That timeline was dead.
If Volkov got that photo tonight—and he would, because the kid in the tracksuit worked for someone, and that someone worked for the organization—the target would be on alert by morning. Extra security. Changed routines. The comfortable patterns I'd just mapped would dissolve into paranoid unpredictability.
[KILL WINDOW: 155 HOURS, 18 MINUTES.]
I needed to move. Tomorrow. Maybe tonight if I could get in position fast enough.
The gym. It's still the best option. Fewer witnesses than the restaurant. More controlled than the street. One bodyguard inside instead of two.
The subway platform was nearly empty. I stood near the exit, watching for tails, watching for the kid in the tracksuit or any of his friends. Nobody followed.
But that didn't mean nobody was looking.
The train arrived with a screech of brakes. I stepped inside, found a seat near the door, and started revising my plan.
Tomorrow. The gym. Ghost Mode to get inside undetected. Catch Volkov in the locker room where he'd be alone and vulnerable.
Seven rounds. One chance.
Somewhere in Brighton Beach, a young man in a tracksuit was probably already showing his phone to someone important. Asking questions. Describing the stranger who'd spent an afternoon watching Dimitri Volkov.
The information was moving through the organization like blood through veins.
I needed to move faster.
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