Chapter 12 - The Confession of Viktor Petrov’s Right Hand
The lead operative of Viktor Petrov’s hit squad—a hulking, scarred ex-spetsnaz operative named Yuri—was dragged into our farmhouse kitchen in heavy zip-ties, his tactical gear soaked in muddy water and smelling of burnt sulfur.
Captain Vance shoved him down into a wooden chair across from me at the kitchen table. Yuri spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, glaring at me with dark, venomous eyes.
“You think trapping us changes anything?” Yuri sneered in a thick, raspy accent. “Viktor Petrov has eyes everywhere. You can’t hide in this wooden box forever, old woman.”
I poured a cup of hot black coffee, slid it across the wooden table toward him, and sat down calmly, resting my hands on my cane.
Yuri looked down at the coffee, suspicious. “What is this?”
“It’s coffee, Yuri,” I said softly. “You’re cold, you’re wet, and your boss just abandoned you the second your team tripped the perimeter alarms. Drink it. You’re going to need your strength for the federal debriefing.”
Yuri scoffed, leaning back in the chair. “I don’t talk to cops. And I certainly don't talk to farmers.”
“You aren't talking to cops, Yuri,” Harrison Vance interrupted, leaning against the doorframe with a thick stack of printed financial ledgers in his hands. “We intercepted Petrov’s encrypted offshore wire transfers five minutes ago. He didn't just send you here to kill Eleanor; he wired your Swiss pension fund to an empty account in the Caymans this morning to ensure you couldn't afford a defense if you were caught.”
Yuri’s eyes flickered with sudden, sharp realization. He stared at Harrison, his jaw tightening.
“The boss… transferred my funds?” Yuri muttered, his voice dropping an octave.
“Check your encrypted comms device,” Captain Vance said, tossing Yuri’s tactical phone onto the table. “Your boss cleared your accounts at midnight. To him, you were never an operative, Yuri. You were a disposable expense.”
Yuri stared at the phone screen. The balance read *Zero.00*. All his years of loyalty, wetwork, and risk, wiped out with a single keystroke by a paranoid billionaire.
Yuri slowly looked up, meeting my eyes across the table. The tough-guy bravado had completely vanished, replaced by cold, calculating betrayal.
“Give me immunity, federal protection for my sister in Minsk, and the encrypted master keys to Petrov’s Swiss banking servers,” Yuri said quietly.
Harrison and Captain Vance exchanged a quick look. Harrison nodded.
May you like
“Deal,” I said softly. “Start talking, Yuri.”
And Yuri talked. For three solid hours, he spilled every dark secret, offshore account number, money-laundering channel, and political bribe Viktor Petrov had utilized across the Pacific Northwest for a decade.
