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Lev Tarasov didn’t need a gun. He had gravity.
He killed the line, poured a vodka, and watched the sirens race toward Viktor’s burning chandelier. Above it all, his own drone—a silent, unmarked thing—hovered and watched. Because the man who controls the air above the crime owns the crime itself.
A fourth blip appeared. No color. No IFF code. Just a hungry, silent dot moving straight toward the city’s gold depository.
Within six minutes, seventeen drones from five families swarmed Viktor’s rooftop. The ghost drone, confused, dropped its payload through Viktor’s skylight—a brick of C4 wrapped in a flag.
Tonight was different.
Lev Tarasov didn’t need a gun. He had gravity.
He killed the line, poured a vodka, and watched the sirens race toward Viktor’s burning chandelier. Above it all, his own drone—a silent, unmarked thing—hovered and watched. Because the man who controls the air above the crime owns the crime itself.
A fourth blip appeared. No color. No IFF code. Just a hungry, silent dot moving straight toward the city’s gold depository.
Within six minutes, seventeen drones from five families swarmed Viktor’s rooftop. The ghost drone, confused, dropped its payload through Viktor’s skylight—a brick of C4 wrapped in a flag.
Tonight was different.