"How many?" I call out over the gunfire.
"At least three! Maybe more!"
I peer around the door, counting muzzle flashes. Four shooters, positioned to catch us in a crossfire.
Professional setup, professional weapons, professional execution.
Someone wanted me dead, and they'd done their homework.
Another burst of gunfire chips drywall inches from my head. I'm suddenly transported back five years to another ambush, another moment when my control failed and cost someone I loved their life.
Katya's laugh, bright and musical, as she grabs my car keys. "I'll pick up Mila from daycare. You focus on your meeting."
The explosion six hours later. The phone call that shattered my world. The small coffin that held what was left of the woman who gave me my daughter.
My fault. My enemies. My failure to protect what mattered most.
The memory hits like a physical blow, but it also sharpens my focus. I won't lose anyone else to my mistakes.
"Alexei! Southwest corner, suppressing fire!"
"Got it!"
I use the distraction to move, sprinting across open space to a better position. A bullet tugs at my jacket, close enough to feel the heat, but I make it to cover.
From this angle, I can see two of the shooters clearly. Professional killers, no doubt about it. They thought they’d take me by surprise and kill me before I knew what hit me.
Their mistake.
The first shooter falls to my return fire, clutching his chest as he topples behind an overturned table. The second tries to relocate, but Alexei's positioned perfectly to cut off his escape route.
Two down. Two to go.
"Behind you!" Alexei shouts.
I spin just as a third shooter emerges from concealment, his weapon trained on my center mass. Time slows to that moment between life and death, when training and instinct are all that stand between you and eternity.
I fire twice. Center mass, just like my father taught me when I was barely old enough to hold a gun properly.
The shooter crumples, his weapon clattering across the concrete floor.
"Last one's running!" Alexei calls out.
I can hear footsteps echoing in the stairwell, someone fleeing rather than finishing the job. Smart choice—a wounded enemy can recover, but a dead one can't.
"Let him go," I say, checking my shoulder where the bullet grazed me. "We need to get out of here before police arrive."
Alexei emerges from cover, his weapon still drawn, eyes scanning for additional threats. "You hit?"
"Just a graze. You?"
"Clean." He moves to check the bodies while I examine the scene, looking for clues about who set this up.
The weapons are probably untraceable. The shooters' clothes are generic, no identifying marks or accessories. Professional work, designed to leave no trail back to whoever ordered the hit.
But someone knew exactly where I'd be tonight, exactly when I'd arrive, exactly how I'd approach the building.
“That fucker,” I mutter. “We’re going to find Lev and I’m going to make it hurt.”
