The first shots shatter the silence, and the night erupts into war.
I grab my weapon and head for the south wall.
***
The assault hits from three directions simultaneously.
South, east, and north—coordinated strikes designed to stretch our defenses, to force us to divide our forces. Professional. Disciplined. Sergei has been planning this for weeks, and it shows.
I reach the south wall as the first wave crashes against our positions. Muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness. Men shout, scream, die. I slide into position beside my team, rifle up, and start shooting.
The first attacker goes down with a bullet to the chest. The second takes one in the throat. I move through the chaos like I was born for it—because I was. This is what I am. What I've always been.
"Team two, flank left," I bark into the radio. "Cut off their retreat."
We push them back, meter by bloody meter. Bodies pile up at the base of the wall—theirs, mostly, but some of ours too. I step over a guard I've known for five years, his eyes staring at nothing, and keep moving.
No time for grief. Grief comes later.
"North wall is taking heavy fire," Alexei reports through my earpiece. "They're focusing on the drainage tunnel."
The weakness we identified. Of course they know about it.
"Send the reserve team. Hold that position at all costs."
"Already done."
I trust him. I have to. I can't be everywhere at once, no matter how much I want to be.
An attacker rounds the corner of the wall, weapon raised. I drop him with two shots before he can get one off. Another appears behind him—younger, hesitant, probably his first real firefight. I shoot him anyway. Hesitation is death in this world. Mercy is a luxury for people who don't have empires to protect.
The fighting is brutal, relentless. For every attacker we drop, another seems to take his place. They're well-trained, well-equipped, moving with the kind of coordination that only comes from months of preparation. Sergei has been planning this assault for a long time.
I wonder, briefly, if he's out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting.
Then another wave hits the wall, and I stop wondering about anything except survival.
The south assault falters around midnight. Sergei's men are pulling back, retreating to their vehicles, leaving bodies in the grass. I take advantage of the brief lull to reload and check in.
"Petrov, status."
"All quiet, sir. We can hear the fighting, but nothing down here. The ladies are holding up."
"Good. Stay sharp."
"Always, sir."
They're safe. Whatever happens above ground, they're safe.
I allow myself a single breath of relief before the radio crackles again.
Then the east gate explodes.
"Breach! Breach at the east gate!"
I'm running before the words finish echoing in my earpiece. The gate is gone—blown inward by some kind of shaped charge—and men are pouring through the gap. More men than we anticipated. More than Sergei should have been able to commit to a secondary assault.
The realization hits me even as I run: this isn't a secondary assault. This is the main attack. The south wall was the diversion.
