Good.
We'll need that tonight.
Behind us, two more SUVs follow in formation. Our best men, armed and ready. Ahead, Luan's convoy, three black vehicles moving with military precision.
An ally after all.
The surprise of it registers somewhere beneath the rage. Luan Krasniqi, moving against his own father. Luan Krasniqi, meeting us at the gates of hell with weapons drawn and loyalties suddenly, improbably clear.
I'll think about the implications later.
Right now, there's only Victoria.
The SUV takes a corner too fast. I brace against the door, checking my weapon for the third time. Makarov, fully loaded, safety off. The weight of it is familiar, comforting in a way nothing else has been since the moment Victoria disappeared.
"Thirty seconds," the driver says.
Zakhar lowers his phone. His hand trembles. "The call dropped. Ramiz was shooting at the door."
The SUV screeches to a halt outside Maison Lyra.
Luan's vehicles are already there, men pouring out with weapons raised.
Our men exit in synchronized precision. Bodies moving as one unit, trained and lethal.
I step out into the rain.
Luan crosses to me, rain soaking his hair, his suit. His eyes are different. Harder. Colder.
"My father's men are scattered," he says without preamble. "Most fled when they realized what was happening. The ones who stayed won't be a problem."
"I take point," I say. "I know the layout."
Luan nods. "Your men flank left. Mine take right."
We move.
The restaurant's front entrance is unlocked. The door swings open silently, revealing darkness punctuated by emergency exit signs casting everything in sickly green.
The smell hits first. Stale fryer oil, the lingering scent of cooked food. Underneath that, something sharper. Metallic.
Gunpowder.
My eyes adjust to the darkness as we move inside. The dining room is a graveyard of overturned chairs and abandoned tables. Wine glasses lie shattered on the floor.
Our footsteps echo despite our attempts at silence.
I take the lead, Zakhar on my left, Alexei on my right. Behind us, Luan coordinates with hand signals, directing the men into position.
The corridor leading to the bathrooms is at the far end of the restaurant. Past the bar. Past the kitchen entrance.
The smell of gunpowder grows stronger.
Then I hear it.
Victoria.
A choked sob, muffled but unmistakable.
