Ivan moves first. A sharp jab to the throat, precise, silent. The man gags, hands flying to his neck. I follow with a heavy elbow to the temple. He drops like a sack of bricks.
The second guard turns too late—Ivan’s fist cracks across his jaw, my knee drives into his stomach. Both down, dragged behind a decorative planter.
No alarms. No screams.Clean.
We step onto the balcony. Caulfield is still there—corner booth, laughing too loud, arm around a blonde in a matching silver t-shirt and shorts. Two more boys, a man in a tailored suit texting furiously. Caulfield’s face is flushed, eyes glassy. He spots us before we’re halfway across the floor.
Recognition hits. Fear follows. Total panic ensues.
Caulfield bolts.
“Fuck,” I growl.
Caulfield shoves past his entourage, knocking over a bottle of Cristal. The crash draws eyes. He sprints toward the far exit—a service stairwell. Ivan and I give chase, shoving through the crowd. A woman screams as I shoulder past, someone yells security. Too late.
We hit the stairwell seconds behind him. Footsteps echo below—fast, panicked. We take the steps two at a time, boots pounding metal. Caulfield’s breathing is loud, ragged. He’s fit enough to run, but not fit enough to outrun us.
Caulfield bursts through a door on the lower level—back corridors, staff only. We follow, corridor lights flickering overhead. Ivan draws a suppressed pistol, ready to pop. I keep mine holstered, waiting for the moment.
Caulfield rounds a corner. We lose him for a heartbeat—then hear voices. Low, angry. Thugs. Not Caulfield’s usual hiredmuscle, these are harder, meaner. Four of them, blocking the exit, armed. Caulfield must have signaled them.
They see us. Guns come up.
No time for talk.
The first shot cracks—silenced, but loud in the narrow hall.
I dive left, Ivan right. Bullets chew drywall. I roll, come up firing—two quick shots. One thug drops, clutching his shoulder. Ivan’s already moving, silent and lethal. A throat strike, a knee to the groin, a final elbow to the temple. The second thug goes down and he ain’t getting up.
The remaining two open fire. I tackle the nearest, driving him into the wall. Bone crunches—his wrist, then his jaw. He slumps as I snap his neck back like a ragdoll. Ivan disarms the last with a twist and a kick, pistol skittering across the floor. A final punch ends it.
Silence, except for our breathing.
Caulfield’s gone. The coward ran for his life. And, to be honest, I don’t blame him.
“Fuck,” Ivan mutters, wiping blood from his lip. “Slippery bastard.”
I scan the corridor. Service exit at the end—door ajar.
Sirens wail in the distance, closing fast.
“We’re out,” I say.
“Caulfield?” Ivan asks.
“Soon. But not tonight,” I growl. “It’s time to bounce.”
We move—back through the kitchen, past startled staff, into the alley. Night air hits like a slap. We split up immediately—Ivan toward the subway, me toward a side street. No cabs. Too traceable. I walk fast, blending into the crowd spilling out of bars, coat collar up, head down.
My phone buzzes once—Ivan…
Ivan: Rendezvous at penthouse? Safe. Crash with me.
I type back…
Viktor: No. Staying with the boys.
The sirens grow louder behind me, blue and red lights flashing across brick walls. Zane’s House is about to crawl with uniforms and questions. Caulfield’s escape is a setback, but not a total loss. He ran. That tells me everything…
