"You get Maya," Nikolai said, stepping close enough that only I could hear. "We handle everything else. Just—" He paused, and for a moment I saw my brother instead of the Pakhan. "Just bring her back. Sophie's already making up the guest room."
I couldn't speak. Could only nod, once, sharp.
The convoy moved out. Five vehicles, sixteen men, enough ordinance to level a city block. I sat in the lead SUV, checking weapons with mechanical precision. Pistol: loaded,round chambered, safety off. Backup at my ankle: same. Knife: positioned for quick draw. Body armor: secured.
My hands went through the motions. My mind was already inside the clinic.
What would I find when we breached? Maya conscious or sedated? Maya whole or already opened? The possibility of arriving too late—of finding her body on a table, organs already packed in coolers—made my vision blur at the edges.
No. I couldn't think that way. She was alive. She had to be alive. Because the alternative wasn't something I could survive.
The clinic appeared through the windshield as we approached—brick building, tasteful signage, professional landscaping. The kind of place where rich people got discreet procedures, where privacy was guaranteed and questions were never asked.
The kind of place that ran a butcher shop in the basement.
"Thirty seconds," Dmitry called from the driver's seat.
I was out of the vehicle before it fully stopped.
Four entry points. Four simultaneous breaches. The clinic's peaceful facade shattered in the space of three heartbeats—glass breaking, doors splintering, the particular thunder of flashbangs designed to disorient and terrify.
I went through the front entrance because I was incapable of subtlety tonight. The door gave way under my shoulder, and the first guard was right there—young guy, probably hired for his intimidating size rather than actual skill. His hand was still reaching for his weapon when my knife found his throat.
He dropped. I stepped over him.
The second guard was smarter, positioned behind a reception desk with actual cover. He got a shot off—went wide, close enough that I felt the air move—before I put two rounds through his center mass. The desk exploded with splinters as his body hit it on the way down.
The third guard tried to surrender. Hands up, weapon on the ground, mouth forming words about just being hired security, not knowing what happened in the basement.
I broke his neck anyway.
Tonight wasn't about justice. Tonight was about clearing a path.
The lobby opened into a hallway that looked exactly like any high-end medical facility—tasteful art on the walls, soft lighting, the subtle scent of money and discretion. The kind of place where wealthy clients came for procedures they didn't want on their records.
The illusion lasted until I kicked open the first door.
Examination room. Nothing unusual except the restraints built into the table—leather cuffs at wrist and ankle positions, professional medical-grade, the kind designed for patients who might struggle. The kind you'd use on someone who hadn't consented.
I moved on.
More doors. More rooms. The facility unfolded like a nightmare dressed in sterile white—surgical equipment gleaming under fluorescent lights, cold storage units humming in the corners that I didn't let myself examine too closely. Everything pristine, professional, the infrastructure of a slaughterhouse disguised as healing.
Somewhere ahead, I could hear shouting. Confusion as Brand's people realized what was happening. Running footsteps, slamming doors, the particular chaos of a secure facility suddenly under assault.
I followed the sounds, deeper into the building.
A guard emerged from a side corridor. His rifle was up, trained on the hallway, professional stance. He got three rounds off before I reached him—two went wide, one hit my vest with enough force to crack something underneath. Didn't matter. Mymomentum carried me forward, knife finding the gap between his armor plates, twisting.
He made a sound like air escaping a balloon. I let him fall.
The basement stairs were marked with a tasteful sign: SURGICAL SUITES - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The door required a keycard. I shot out the lock instead.
The stairwell was empty. Either everyone had fled upward or they were waiting below. My money was on the latter—this was where the real work happened, where the money was made, where men like Brand kept their most valuable inventory.
I took the stairs three at a time.
The basement level was different from upstairs. Gone was the pretense of legitimate medical facility. Here, the walls were bare concrete, the lighting harsh and functional. Drains in the floor positioned for easy cleaning. The smell of antiseptic thick enough to taste.
