Luka’s blueprint pulsed on the screen, a shimmering grid of circuits and steel. Kirill whistled, a low, impressed sound. “He’s good. Really good.” “He is,” I agreed, a strange, fierce pride uncurling in my chest. "He always was." The exhaustion from earlier had evaporated, replaced by the precise, cold calculus of logistics. "Your part first." I gestured to his terminal, where a dozen windows were already open, monitoring Koslov Corporation’s sprawling infrastructure. "Dimitri will be watching the market for any Krov retaliation after the audit proposal. He won’t expect this kind of… internal combustion." Kirill nodded, his fingers already dancing across his keyboard. "A server migration of unprecedented scale. Moving the archives of the entire Koslov historical data to a newly acquired, highly temperamental, and completely fictitious off-site facility. It’ll require personal oversight from the Patriarch himself, naturally. He trusts no one with the ancestral digital scrolls.” He grinned, a flash of predatory amusement. “Especially not if they appear to be spontaneously combusting.” “Exactly,” I said. “He’ll be locked in the main server hub, arguing with terrified technicians about corrupted packets and theoretical fire hazards, while the real fire starts elsewhere.” As Kirill initiated the first phase, a cascade of alerts began to flash across his screens. Green changed to amber, then angry red. Data streams, usually a placid river, churned into a digital maelstrom. It was beautiful in its chaos, an orchestrated symphony of impending system collapse. Kirill’s brow furrowed in concentration, his expression a fascinating blend of mischief and intense focus. “The initial reports are coming in. Sector 7’s financial ledgers are… experiencing unforeseen liquidity issues. Payroll for the Koslov subsidiaries in Vespera is currently being routed through a Latvian seafood distributor. Dimitri will be having a conniption fit any second now.” My attention was already back on Luka’s schematics. The Krov 'work camp', or rather, the Industriya-9 Reclamation Center, was a surprisingly sophisticated complex, designed for efficiency, not security against an external digital assault. It was a closed loop, built on proprietary Krov-developed operating systems – a classic corporate hubris. Luka, however, had found the backdoors, the forgotten maintenance ports, the vendor-installed diagnostics that were never properly patched. He’d even left comments in the code, terse and efficient as only Luka could be, highlighting the weakest points. “Here,” I muttered, pointing to a small, almost invisible node on the security network diagram. “The power conduit for the main gates. Independent circuit. Manual override possible from the central control tower, but also, if you know the frequency, via a remote burst signal to the auxiliary power relay.” Kirill glanced over, a faint hum escaping his lips. “Nasty. Just the way I like it.” I keyed in the sequence, my fingers flying over the console. A single line of script, elegant and precise, unfurled across the screen, then vanished as I sent the command. Moments later, on Luka’s live feed, the heavy iron gates of Industriya-9 shuddered, then slowly, agonizingly, began to grind open. A tiny, almost imperceptible surge of triumph coursed through me. The first domino. “The comms link is active,” I said, activating a secure channel. “Luka, do you read me?” Static crackled, then his voice, a whisper, but clear. “Anja. Gates… they’re open.” “Affirmative. Now, the main perimeter patrol route. You marked a blind spot here, near the old incinerator stack. The Krovs have a rotating shift for the waste hauler. Is it still on schedule?” “Yes. Due in five minutes. Driver takes his break just before the stack.” “Excellent. I’m rerouting the garbage disposal route for Sector Gamma. It will trigger a priority alert on the central logistics board. The truck will be diverted to handle it. You’ll have a window. Get to the transport bay.” I sent another cascade of commands. On Luka’s feed, a small, boxy utility van, usually reserved for internal transfers, veered sharply, heading towards the incinerator stack, leaving its usual route clear. “Anja, I see it. Slipping past.” His voice was tight, strained, but steady. He was working through the shadows, a ghost in their own system. A cold pinch caught the back of my throat. This was Luka. My Luka. Not a data packet, but flesh and blood, navigating concrete corridors. “Hold on,” I said, spotting a potential issue. “A Krov surveillance drone is on a non-standard sweep. Route 7-Beta. It’s heading towards the bay entrance. I’m initiating a system-wide diagnostic on the drone network. It should freeze them for forty seconds, maybe a minute. Go now.” On Luka’s feed, the drone, a buzzing metallic sphere, suddenly jerked erratically, then hung suspended, its lights blinking a furious red. Luka sprinted. The hangar, a dark cavern, loomed ahead. He slipped inside just as the drone’s rotors whirred back to life, resuming its patrol with a renewed, almost aggressive hum. “In. I’m in,” Luka panted. “They have transport stock here. Standard Krov-issue cargo flatbeds.” “The one designated ‘K-912-Beta’,” I instructed, recalling his meticulously compiled list. “It has a faulty GPS tracker, according to your schematics. Just enough to broadcast a false location for thirty minutes before a manual override is required. Hotwire it. The protocol is simple: bypass the igniter, cross the fuel line with the auxiliary power. You’ll remember.” I’d taught him the basics years ago, a desperate skill for desperate times, when we’d needed to scavenge anything that moved. The irony of using it against the Krovs was not lost on me. “Got it,” he confirmed. A few tense seconds, a clang, a grunt, then the distant rumble of an engine starting. “Rolling out. Northwest perimeter road. I’ve overridden the exit gate controls. Guards will assume a maintenance run for a while.” My eyes flickered to Kirill’s screen. Dimitri’s face, projected onto a main console, was a mask of thunderous rage, shouting at a cowering technician. The ‘server migration’ was holding. He was thoroughly distracted. “Stay on the northwest road. There’s a disused service tunnel that leads to the old industrial district. It comes out near the abandoned Zlatograd power station. Head there. There’s a Koslov safe house, a defunct substation, pre-programmed into the GPS under ‘Emergency Repair Kit Alpha-1’. Kirill’s people will meet you.” “Understood,” Luka said. His voice, for the first time, held a note of relief, a lightness I hadn’t heard in weeks. “I’m clear, Anja. Thank you.” “Just get there, Luka,” I said. Heavy, numbing fatigue dropped onto my shoulders the second the adrenaline receded. I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes for a single, precious second. He was free. He was safe. The soft hiss of the office door sliding open behind me shattered the fragile peace. I opened my eyes, my muscles tensing, and slowly turned. Matrona Krov stood in the doorway, her usually immaculate dark suit rumpled, her face a mask of furious disbelief, her eyes narrowed slits of pure venom. Her lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line. She hadn't even bothered to knock.

Two-Front War