THE BIGGER GAME

The coordinates led to a shipping container yard on the edge of the port district.

Anya scanned the area through binoculars from their vantage point on a neighboring warehouse roof. Empty. Too empty. The kind of empty that screamed ambush.

"I count fifteen containers," she said quietly. "Good sight lines for snipers. Multiple exit routes. If this is a trap, it's a well-designed one."

"It's a trap," Alexei said. He was field-dressing his own wounds with the efficiency of someone who'd done it too many times. "Question is whether it's worth walking into."

Dimitri was silent. Watching. Calculating. His alpha senses stretched thin, searching for threats.

Anya felt the bond between them, stronger now, 70% and dropping with every passing hour. Felt his tension. His exhaustion. The determination that burned hotter than the pain.

"We could leave," Nikolai suggested. "Go dark. Let whoever this is think they won."

"And then what?" Dimitri's voice was flat. "They've already proved they can find us. They killed the Sokolov Pakhan and made it look like we did it. They sent CIA kill teams. They're not going to stop."

"So we walk into their trap and hope we're faster?"

"No." Anya lowered the binoculars. "We walk into their trap and change the rules."

Three pairs of eyes turned to her.

"Explain," Dimitri said.

She pulled out her phone, the secure one, the one the CIA didn't know about, and started typing. "They expect us to come in the front. Cautious. Paranoid. Looking for the ambush."

"Because there is an ambush."

"Probably." She hit send on the message. "So we don't go in. We make them come to us."

"You just sent something," Alexei said. His voice was sharp. Suspicious. "To who?"

"An old contact. Former Mossad. Owes me a favor." She looked at Dimitri. "How much do you trust me?"

"Not much," he said honestly. "But I'm listening."

Fair enough.

"My contact has access to thermal imaging drones. Military grade. The kind that can see through shipping containers." She pulled up a map on her phone. "If there are people in there waiting, we'll see them. We'll know exactly what we're walking into."

"And if your contact sells us out?"

"She won't."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I pulled her daughter out of a Syrian prison two years ago." Anya's voice was matter-of-fact. "I told you. People owe me favors. Lots of favors."

Dimitri studied her. Really looked. Seeing past the omega, past the operative, to something else. Something he was still trying to understand.

"You collect debts like currency," he said slowly.

"I collect insurance. In my line of work, you never know when you'll need a miracle." She met his eyes. "Consider this your miracle."

His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:

THERMAL IMAGING UPLOADING. STAND BY.

Thirty seconds later, the image came through.

Anya pulled it up, expanded it. The shipping yard rendered in false color, hot spots showing where bodies hid. She counted quickly. Efficiently.

"Twelve hostiles. Eight in the containers. Four on the perimeter." She zoomed in on one cluster. "And one in the center container. Alone."

"The one who sent the message," Nikolai guessed.

"Or bait." Alexei's paranoia was showing. "Put someone in the center, make us think they're the mastermind, then ambush us when we..."

"Look." Anya pointed to the thermal signature.

"This person isn't moving. Hasn't moved in..." She checked the timestamp. "Twenty minutes. Just sitting. Waiting."

"Confident," Dimitri said.

"Or stupid."

"Or they know something we don't."

That was the problem, wasn't it? Someone always knew something they didn't.

"We need an approach vector," Anya said. She was already planning. Tactical mind clicking through possibilities. "If we come from the south, we can use the crane as cover. Pick off the perimeter guards before they know we're there."

"Then breach the center container and hope whoever's inside doesn't blow us all to hell," Nikolai finished.

"Essentially, yes."

Dimitri looked at his brothers. At Anya. At the thermal image showing twelve people who might want them dead.

"Fuck it," he said. "We're going in."

They moved fast. Quiet. Years of practice making them ghosts.

Anya took point, she was trained for this, had done it a hundred times in worse conditions, with Dimitri at her six. Alexei and Nikolai flanked.

The first perimeter guard went down silent. Her blade across his throat, her hand over his mouth. She lowered him gently, checked his gear.

Not CIA. Not Russian. Not any organization she recognized.

Private military. Expensive. The kind you hired when you wanted plausible deniability.

"Mercs," she whispered to Dimitri. "High-end."

"Suggestions?"

"They're good. But they're working for money, not conviction. They'll break if we hit hard enough."

She saw the calculation in his eyes. The shift from caution to aggression.

"Alexei, Nikolai," he said quietly. "North and south perimeters. Drop them fast. We breach in sixty seconds."

His brothers melted into shadow.

Anya and Dimitri moved toward the center container. She felt him at her back, solid, reliable, the kind of partner you trusted not to get you killed.

Thirty seconds.

A shout. Gunfire. Alexei or Nikolai had been spotted.

"So much for stealth," Dimitri muttered.

"New plan." Anya was already moving. "We go loud."

She hit the center container at a dead run, kicked the door hard enough to buckle the lock. It burst open.

Inside...

A woman.

Fifty. Maybe older. Elegant. White hair pulled back in a severe bun. Expensive suit. Sitting in a folding chair like she was at a dinner party instead of a potential war zone.

She smiled.

"Agent Volkov," she said in perfect English. American accent. East Coast. "How lovely of you to join me. And you brought the Volkov brothers. How convenient."

Anya had her gun up. Center mass. Two-pound trigger pull from ending this.

"Who are you?"

"Disappointed, really. I expected more caution." The woman gestured to the other chair across from her. "Please. Sit. We have much to discuss."

"I'll stand."

"Suit yourself." The woman's eyes, cold, calculating, the eyes of someone who'd ordered deaths without blinking, shifted to Dimitri. "Mr. Volkov. Or should I say Pakhan? I've heard so much about you."

"Who the fuck are you?" Dimitri's voice was pure alpha threat.

"My name is Eleanor Voss. Director of a task force you've never heard of. One that operates well outside the bounds of any government agency."

She smiled. "We're the people who clean up messes. And gentlemen, you are a very large mess."

Outside, gunfire intensified. Anya heard Alexei cursing in Russian, heard the distinctive crack of Nikolai's rifle.

"Your men are dying," Anya said flatly. "Call them off."

"Oh, those aren't my men. Well, not really. I hired them, but I don't particularly care if they survive." Eleanor's smile widened. "They're a test. To see if you're as good as your reputation suggests."

"A test." Dimitri's hand tightened on his weapon. "You orchestrated all of this...the Sokolov hit, the attack on our compound, the CIA kill teams...as a fucking test?"

"Not all of it." Eleanor leaned back. Casual. "The Sokolov Pakhan's death was... necessary. He was becoming unstable. Making moves that would have exposed certain operations we'd prefer stay hidden. So yes, we eliminated him."

"And framed us for it."

"That was fortuitous. Not planned, but certainly useful." She looked at Anya. "Your CIA task force has been trying to dismantle the Volkov operation for two years. We simply accelerated their timeline."

Anya felt cold. "Marcus. My handler. He's working for you."

"Was working for me. He's dead now. Too many questions." Eleanor said it like she was discussing the weather. "You were supposed to complete your mission. Instead, you chose them. How interesting."

The bond pulsed. Hot. Angry.

"What do you want?" Dimitri demanded.

"I want to offer you a proposition." Eleanor stood, moved to a briefcase Anya hadn't noticed. Opened it. Inside...documents. Photos. Intelligence files. "The Russian Bratva in America is changing. Old leadership dying. New leadership... well, that's still being determined."

She pulled out a photo. The Sokolov Pakhan, very dead, his head nearly separated from his body.

"We eliminated three Pakhans in the last month. Made it look like turf wars. Like the Bratva was eating itself alive." She smiled. "Which it is. But we're helping it along."

"Why?" Anya asked.

"Because chaos is profitable, Agent Volkov. Chaos creates opportunities. And in the rubble of the old organizations, new ones can be built. Better ones. Ones we control."

Understanding hit like a hammer.

"You're building a puppet network," Anya said slowly. "Taking out the old leadership. Installing new leadership that answers to you. Creating a Russian organized crime network that's actually controlled by...what? CIA? NSA? Who?"

"None of the above." Eleanor's smile was sharp.

"We're private sector. Funded by interests that benefit from a more... manageable criminal element. Think of us as facilitators. We provide structure where there was chaos. Order where there was violence."

"You're fucking insane," Nikolai said from the doorway. He was bleeding, but upright. Alexei behind him, equally battered.

"Am I?" Eleanor gestured to the documents. "Look at them. Really look. The Volkov organization controls shipping, smuggling routes, and protection across the East Coast. You're already an empire. We're just offering to make you a legitimate one."

She pulled out another document. A contract.

"Work with us. Be our eyes and ears in the Bratva. Help us reshape the power structure. And in return..." She slid a piece of paper across.

"Immunity. Full pardons for all crimes. Protection from prosecution. And a twenty million dollar signing bonus."

The container was very quiet.

"You want us to be your informants," Dimitri said flatly.

"I want you to be our partners. There's a difference."

"Not really."

Eleanor's expression didn't change. "You have twenty-four hours to decide. Accept our offer, and you become untouchable. Refuse..." She smiled. "Well, you've seen what we can do. You've seen how easily we can dismantle your operation. Turn your allies against you. Make you targets."

"That's a threat," Alexei growled.

"That's a fact." Eleanor closed the briefcase. "I'm not your enemy, gentlemen. I'm offering you a chance to survive. To thrive. To build something lasting instead of waiting for the next ambitious alpha to put a bullet in your head."

She moved toward the door. Anya's gun tracked her, but Eleanor didn't seem concerned.

"Twenty-four hours," she repeated. "Make the smart choice."

Then she was gone.

Just walked out of the container, past the dead mercs, into a waiting car that pulled away smooth and professional.

The four of them stood in silence.

"That," Nikolai said finally, "was fucked up."

"Agreed." Alexei looked at Dimitri. "She's serious. They took out three Pakhans. Framed us. Sent kill teams. This isn't a bluff."

"I know."

"So what do we do?"

Dimitri looked at the contract. At the documents. At the twenty million dollar number.

At Anya.

"We figure out who she really works for," he said quietly. "And we burn it all down."

"Dima.."

"No." His voice was alpha-hard. Final. "I'm not becoming anyone's puppet. I built this organization from nothing. From blood and violence and will. I'm not handing it over to some shadow cabal that thinks money and threats can buy loyalty."

"They'll kill us," Nikolai pointed out.

"Let them try."

Anya felt something warm in her chest. Something that felt dangerously like pride.

"We'll need help," she said. "Information. Resources. We're going up against an organization with nation-state level capabilities."

"You have contacts," Dimitri said. It wasn't a question.

"Some. The ones who aren't dead or compromised." She thought fast. "I know a hacker. Former NSA. If anyone can trace Eleanor Voss and figure out who's funding her, it's him."

"Trustworthy?"

"No. But he's mercenary. Pays his debts." She looked at Dimitri. "And I saved his life in Berlin. He owes me big."

Dimitri studied her. "You save a lot of lives."

"I end a lot too. It balances out."

He smiled. Small. Almost sad. "Yeah. It does."

The bond pulsed again. Stronger. She felt it pulling them together, felt the immunity suppressant failing.

65%. Maybe 60%.

Soon they'd be mated. Bonded. Permanent.

And she was surprised to realize she was okay with that.

"We need to move," Alexei said. "Before Eleanor's backup arrives."

"Agreed." Dimitri grabbed the documents from the briefcase. "We take these. See what intelligence we can extract. Then we go dark. Completely off-grid until we understand what we're dealing with."

They moved out as a unit. Pack dynamics kicking in automatically, Nikolai on point, Alexei watching their six, Dimitri and Anya in the middle.

Four people against an organization that had toppled governments.

The smart money was on them dying within a week.

But Anya had never been smart when it came to survival. She'd been stubborn. Ruthless. Willing to do whatever it took.

They made it two blocks before the window exploded.

Not the window. The windshield of the car Alexei had hot-wired. It spider-webbed, a neat hole punched through the center.

"Sniper!" Anya screamed.

They bailed. Fast. Professional. Rolling away from the vehicle as a second round punched through the hood. Engine block. The car would've been dead anyway.

"Where?" Dimitri demanded.

Anya's training kicked in. Wind direction. Bullet trajectory. Angle of entry.

"North. Elevated. Maybe 400 meters." She scanned buildings. "There. The construction site."

Another round. This one kicked up concrete near Nikolai's feet. Close. Too close.

"He's good," Nikolai said. Almost admiring. "Professional grade."

"Eleanor's insurance policy," Alexei guessed. "She expected us to refuse."

"Then let's not disappoint." Dimitri looked at Anya. "Can you counter-snipe?"

She'd qualified expert at 800 meters. This was 400. Child's play.

If she had a rifle.

"I need a weapon. Long gun. Scope if you have it."

"Nikolai," Dimitri said.

His brother didn't hesitate. Tossed her his rifle, some custom job, expensive scope, probably zeroed to his preferences but she could work with it.

Anya caught it. Checked the chamber. Loaded. Good.

"Cover me."

She moved. Fast. Using the broken car for cover, then the dumpster, then the alley wall. Getting angle. Getting position.

The sniper fired again. Missed. He was tracking Dimitri, not her.

Mistake.

Anya found her spot. Prone position. Rifle up. Eye to scope.

There.

Movement in the construction site. Fourth floor. Window opening.

She controlled her breathing. Felt her heart rate slow. The killing calm settling over her like a familiar coat.

Wind.

She compensated.

Distance.

She adjusted.

Target acquired.

She saw him. Male. Tactical gear. Professional setup. He was tracking Dimitri through his scope, unaware he was being hunted himself.

Anya's finger found the trigger.

Two-pound pull.

The rifle kicked.

Through the scope, she saw the round take him in the chest. Saw him drop.

"Clear," she called.

The brothers emerged from cover. Staring at her. At the rifle. At the casual way she'd just dropped a professional sniper at 400 meters.

"Jesus," Nikolai breathed. "You're really fucking good at this."

"I told you. I'm good at my job."

"Your job was killing people like us," Alexei pointed out.

"Was." She handed the rifle back to Nikolai. "Now my job is keeping people like you alive. Try to appreciate the irony."

Dimitri's phone buzzed.

They all tensed. But it wasn't Eleanor. It was a number Anya didn't recognize.

He answered. "Da?"

His face went white.

"We're coming." He ended the call. Looked at his brothers. At Anya. "That was Pavel. He's holed up at the old brewery. Says he has information about Eleanor Voss. About who's funding her operation."

"It's a trap," Alexei said immediately.

"Probably."

"So we walk into another trap."

"Seems to be our day for it."

They moved. Fast. Exhausted. Running on adrenaline and stubbornness.

The brewery was abandoned. Had been for years. Perfect place for an ambush.

Or a meeting.

They stacked up at the door. Professional. Efficient. Anya went in first—she was trained for this, had breached more buildings than she could count.

Inside...

Pavel.

He was tied to a chair. Blood running from his nose, his mouth. Beaten. Badly.

But alive.

"Pavel." Dimitri moved fast. Cutting the ropes. "Who did this?"

"Them." Pavel coughed. Blood. "Eleanor's people. They wanted information. About you. About..."

He stopped. Eyes going wide. Looking past Dimitri.

At the shadows.

They came from everywhere at once. Not mercs this time. Something else. Something worse.

Tactical gear. Night vision. Suppressed weapons.

And gas grenades.

"Gas!" Anya screamed. "Get out! Get..."

Too late.

The grenades popped. White smoke. Chemical. Her eyes burned. Her throat closed.

She felt hands grab her. Professional. Efficient. Extraction hold.

Through the smoke, she saw Dimitri fighting. Saw Alexei and Nikolai going down.

Saw Pavel slump in his chair, unconscious or dead.

Someone jammed a needle in her neck. Sedative. Fast-acting.

She fought. Fought like a cornered wolf. But the drug was already working. Her limbs going heavy. Her vision tunneling.

The last thing she saw was Dimitri's face. Covered in blood. Fighting to reach her.

Then darkness.

She woke to the sound of engines.

Helicopter. She knew that sound. Had heard it a thousand times in a thousand operations.

Her hands were zip-tied. Professional job. Her weapons gone. Her phone gone.

She was on the floor of a Blackhawk. Tactical transport. The kind the military used.

Across from her...

"You're awake." Stevens. Her former partner. "Good. We need to talk."

Anya's mind raced. "Where are the brothers?"

"Safe. For now. Holed up somewhere, I'd imagine. Probably planning your rescue." He smiled. "They won't find you."

"Stevens..."

"You fucked up, Anya. You had one job. Complete the mission. Instead, you went rogue. Chose them over us. Over the Agency."

"The Agency didn't send you." She saw it now. Saw the truth. "Eleanor did."

His smile confirmed it.

"Eleanor Voss is CIA," Anya said slowly. "Black budget. Operating outside official channels."

"Eleanor Voss is a patriot. Building something better than the chaos we've been cleaning up for decades." Stevens leaned forward. "And you could have been part of it. Instead, you chose a pack of Russian criminals."

"They're not..."

"Save it. I don't care." He checked his watch. "You have twenty-four hours. Complete your original mission...eliminate the Volkov brothers...or we eliminate you. And them. And everyone you've ever cared about."

Fear. Cold. Final.

"You're bluffing."

Stevens pulled out a phone. Showed her a photo.

A woman. Twenties. Dark hair. Blue eyes.

Anya's sister.

"No." The word came out broken. "No, she's dead. The records said..."

"The records say whatever we want them to say." Stevens smiled. "Your sister is very much alive. In a CIA safehouse. Undergoing evaluation for the hybrid program."

The hybrid program. The one her father had gotten them out to escape. The one that turned omegas into weapons. Into breeders for super-soldier alphas.

"You bastard."

"Complete your mission in twenty-four hours," Stevens repeated, "or she enters the program. Permanently. You'll never see her again. And everything your father died to protect will be for nothing."

The helicopter landed.

They hauled her out. Tossed her onto a rooftop somewhere in the city. Cut the zip ties.

Left her there with a phone. A gun. And twenty-four hours to choose.

Her sister.

Or the pack she'd chosen.

Anya looked at the phone. At the gun.

At the city spread out below her, a city where three alphas were hunting for her, trying to save her, willing to die for her.

And somewhere in a safehouse, her sister was being prepped for a nightmare.

Twenty-four hours.

To choose who lived and who died.

To choose who she really was.

She picked up the phone and started typing.