With patience.
With timing.
With men who understand exactly how long to wait before killing you.
Malenkov’s hand curls slowly into a fist.
“Find Jonah Elliot,” he orders. “Immediately.”
A pause.
The worst kind.
“Sir… the hunters disengaged. We’ve lost contact uphill.”
Malenkov closes his eyes.
Just once.
Four years.
Four years of perfect control. Of shaping men through deprivation, of turning loyalty into leverage. Of preparing the final act where Ronan Pierce would watch his brothers break—on command.
Instead—
The brothers walked out.
Alive.
Unbowed.
And Jonah Elliot—
Jonah Elliot is still free.
A sound escapes Malenkov then. Not a shout. Not a curse.
A sharp breath pulled too deep, too fast.
Fear.
No.
Not fear.
Recognition.
This is what happens when men stop reacting and startcoordinating.
“Seal the perimeter,” he snaps. “All sectors. No one leaves.”
The technician swallows. “Sir… the eastern exfil is already gone. Air assets lifted three minutes ago.”
Gone.
Malenkov stares at the screen.
Ronan Pierce did not come for revenge.
