Chapter 3

The beat-to-hell Ford pickup crawled through the industrial wasteland of South Atlanta. The suspension had been shot for years—every time the wheels hit a pothole in the cracked asphalt, the chassis screamed with metal-on-metal grinding.

Viktor parked across the street. The place was called "Rossi Auto Salvage," though it looked more like a chop shop for stolen cars. The air reeked of old rust and burnt motor oil.

Behind the counter sat a man named Marco Rossi. He looked exactly like Viktor remembered from twenty years in the future—or rather, the future version looked exactly like this. A balding, overweight Italian arms dealer with black grease permanently embedded under his nails, leaning against a scarred faux-wood counter, nursing a can of cold Budweiser.

"We're full up, kid. Come back tomorrow." Marco didn't even look up.

"I'm here to buy seeds." Viktor closed the heavy iron door behind him. His voice was flat.

Marco froze. Slowly, he raised his head. Those eyes—hidden beneath thick brows—sharpened like a hawk's, wary and cold.

At this age, an eighteen-year-old poor white kid in a stiff, worn leather jacket should've looked lost. Or desperate for weed. But Viktor's eyes were too steady. Steady like a coroner who'd spent thirty years in a morgue.

"What kind of seeds?" Marco spat tobacco juice into a plastic cup, drawing out the second half of the code phrase.

Viktor didn't blink: "The kind that fly. Nine millimeter. Parabellum."

Parabellum. Latin for: If you want peace, prepare for war.

Marco stared at Viktor for a full three seconds. Then he grunted, twisted the lock behind him, and shoved open a blast door leading to a back room.

"Get in."

The air in the back room was dry and cold, thick with gun oil and rust-proofing compound. The walls were lined with hardware—old Remington pump-action shotguns, black-market Soviet assault rifles, everything.

A normal eighteen-year-old would've walked in here with greed and excitement lighting up his eyes. But Viktor didn't. He moved like a picky customer in a grocery store, his gaze sweeping methodically across the racks.

He reached out—his hand young but covered in small scrapes—and lifted a slightly weathered Colt M1911A1 from the shelf.

He dropped the magazine. Racked the slide to check the chamber. Released it.

Click.

The crisp metallic sound echoed in the sealed room. His thumb slid naturally along the frame, brushing the safety. His trigger finger stayed glued outside the guard.

"Old-school piece." Marco leaned against two military ammo crates, smoking, watching coldly. "Not many people know their way around one anymore. Who gave you the code, kid?"

"A dead man." Viktor answered casually, reaching into a nearby box and pulling out a sleek black cylinder. A brand-new suppressor.

"The gun. Two spare mags. Suppressor. Fifty rounds of full metal jacket. Name your price."

"Nine hundred. Cash only." Marco exhaled smoke.

Viktor pulled out Rico's bloodstained wallet, counted out two hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them on the counter. "Here's two hundred. The rest? Call it a short-term loan."

Marco laughed—a sharp, mocking bark. His fat body shook. His eyes went cold. "Kid, you think this is a federal credit union? Take your two hundred and get the hell out before I have someone break both your legs."

Viktor didn't even blink. His hands moved with absolute calm, threading the suppressor onto the M1911's barrel, adjusting the sights, voice flat:

"After tonight, there won't be a Santos Family in Bankhead anymore. Their territory, their cash, their product—all of it changes hands. Tomorrow morning, I'll come back with enough cash to buy out every Mossberg shotgun on your rack. Keep my tab open, and you're investing in the future biggest player in Bankhead. Turn me down, and you're just another used car dealer who missed his shot."

Marco's smirk froze.

He'd been in the black market for half his life. He'd seen plenty of cocky street punks. Those guys always yelled before they pulled the trigger. Always shaking. But this kid was different. His hands were too steady. Steady like a statue with no warmth. That kind of absolute confidence—only someone who'd held life and death in their hands could carry it.

"Antonio Santos is throwing a party tonight." Marco was silent for a moment, then turned to a bulky CRT monitor on the desk and tapped a few keys.

"White brick warehouse on Donald Lee Hollowell Parkway. It's his nephew's birthday—officially. Really, it's his monthly cut-and-count night. Three, maybe four lookouts outside. Fifteen core members inside. Party starts at eight. By now, they're probably too drunk to recognize their own mothers."

"Add that intel to my tab." Viktor slid the heavy Colt into the small of his back, covered it with his oversized jacket, and turned toward the door.

"See you tomorrow, Marco."

Marco watched the iron door close. He shook his head, crushed out his cigarette, and smirked. "Crazy bastard... but damn, that's interesting."

1:30 a.m. The Georgia night sky was thick and humid, suffocating.

Viktor sat in the idling Ford pickup, parked two blocks away in a dark, unlit alley.

Outside, the white brick warehouse's tin roof glinted dully under the weak streetlights. For Viktor, this place wasn't just some third-rate gang hideout. It was a milestone. In his past life, three years from now in 2002, he'd turned this dump into "Morti Logistics Center"—the foundation of his future construction and transportation empire spanning the U.S. and Canada.

He could count every blind spot in this building with his eyes closed. He knew which brick in the back wall was loose. Which drainpipe leaked during storms. And he knew the spotlight in the back corner—when it rotated, it left a twenty-foot dead zone.

Right now, the warehouse was shaking with bass-heavy music. 1999 Atlanta was the golden age of Dirty South hip-hop. The deep, pounding bass was loud enough to lift the roof—and loud enough to drown out every small sound outside.

Ten minutes ago, Viktor had slipped into the back alley during the spotlight's blind rotation.

The two guys posted by the dumpster never got the chance to scream. Viktor crushed the first one's temple with the heavy M1911 grip. Then his left hand shot out like a claw and collapsed the second one's windpipe.

Now, both bodies were slumped behind the rusted dumpster, their blood swallowed by shadow.

Creak—

The heavy iron back door finally pushed open from inside.

Antonio Santos stumbled out, reeking of cheap tequila and expensive cologne. He was forty-five, pot-bellied, a bottom-feeder from Puerto Rico who thought running three blocks of project-house drug deals made him a cartel kingpin.

He yanked a girl by the arm.

Her name was Amy. Nineteen. Curly blonde hair. Thin frame. She used to have clear, spring-water blue eyes. But now, her gaze was hollow. Her arms were covered in fresh needle marks. She was a lamb Antonio had destroyed and controlled with heroin.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch." Antonio cursed, fumbling in his pocket for the keys to his black Cadillac. "Tomorrow morning, some old friends downtown are gonna take real good care of you. Let's see how much a college girl like you is worth."

Amy didn't even have the instinct to cry anymore. She just stood there in a thin denim skirt, shaking violently in the eighty-degree summer heat.

Antonio hit the unlock button. The Cadillac chirped twice.

But before he could open the door, a figure—melted into the shadows of the alley—moved silently behind him.

A cold, heavy metal tube—reeking of gunpowder—pressed hard into the soft flesh just below Antonio's left ear.

The rough texture of the suppressor made every hair on Antonio's body stand up.

"Good evening, Mr. Santos."

The young man's voice was soft, barely audible over the pounding bass. But it pierced Antonio's alcohol-soaked brain like an ice pick from hell.