I never meant to become a merchant of death.\n\nIt started in 1982, in Brighton Beach. I ran a decent restaurant, nothing special. Then I saw two Russian crews open fire in broad daylight—automatic rifles, no hesitation. And I realized: guns aren’t just weapons. They’re currency. Power. Freedom.\n\nI got my first Uzi through my father’s rabbi. Sold it for triple the price. My brother Vitaly thought I was insane. But when the Lebanese war broke out, we loaded a cargo plane and never looked back.\n\nNow, Interpol’s Jack Valentine is on my tail. My wife Ava suspects the truth. And my brother… my brother saw what we’ve done.\n\nIn Sierra Leone, he tried to stop a deal. Watched a child get hacked to pieces. Then he blew up the weapons truck—and they shot him for it.\n\nI’m sitting in a U.S. holding cell. Valentine thinks he’s won. But I know better.\n\nThey’ll come for me. The government always does. Because when they need a war started—or finished—they don’t call the diplomats.\n\nThey call men like me.