Lev’s earpiece crackled. “Sponge.” It was Yuri the Cleaver, head of the Volkovs. “That’s not mine. Kill it.”
With three keystrokes, he told the ghost drone that the gold depository was actually the basement of Viktor’s own mansion. Then he told every other drone in the sky that Viktor’s mansion was dropping 50 kilos of uncut heroin. mobtop
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. Lev’s earpiece crackled
Lev Tarasov didn’t need a gun. He had gravity. Kill it
A fourth blip appeared. No color. No IFF code. Just a hungry, silent dot moving straight toward the city’s gold depository.
From his penthouse, Lev watched three drones blink across his screen. Green for the Volkovs, red for the Bratvas, blue for the new Turks. Every gang had a drone these days. They ran drugs, scouted hits, jammed police scanners. But above 400 feet, the sky was Lev’s territory. He “absorbed” the chaos—hence the nickname. He rerouted signals, spoofed GPS, and for a 20% cut, made sure no two drones ever collided over a heist.
Yuri called back, laughing. “Sponge. The sky is yours. Name your price.”