I’m moving with Viktor and five others, entering through the north entrance while Vincent’s team closes in from the south. The Ashford forces hit them from behind in a classic pincer movement.
Konstantin’s men are good but they walked into a trap, and now they’re surrounded.
The battle spreads through the clinic like wildfire. I see one of Konstantin’s men trying to flank toward the back exam rooms—toward Vera—and I put two rounds in his chest before he makes it five steps. He goes down hard, weapon clattering.
Because we’re in a medical clinic it’s close quarters combat mixed with longer-range shooting. My wounded shoulder protests with every shot, but adrenaline overrides the pain. I move through the clinic like I’ve done this a thousand times before because, well, because I have.
Headshot. Body shot. One of Konstantin’s men tries to get behind me and Sergei silently and efficiently takes him out with a knife to the kidney. The body crumples.
Through my earpiece, I hear Vera’s sharp intake of breath. She can hear the violence but she can’t see anything.
“Do not move, Vera,” I order. “No matter what you hear, donotleave that room.”
“Okay,” she whispers shakily, her fear palpable even through the comm.
I force myself to focus. I can’t think about her fear or about what happens if someone gets through. I can’t think about?—
Focus.
The fighting intensifies. Konstantin’s men are professionals. They adapt quickly, find cover, and coordinate their fire, but we have numbers and position, and we’re fighting for something more than money.
We’re fighting to end this.
One of my men goes down clutching his leg with a bullet through the thigh in an arterial spray. Anton drags him behind cover while returning fire.
Then one of Vincent’s men takes a headshot and he’s dead before he hits the ground.
This isn’t clean, but then again, war never is.
I reload, clear a jam and keep moving. There’s a rhythm to combat when you’ve done it enough—move, shoot, cover, reload. Don’t think or hesitate. Just survive.
I round a corner and nearly run into one of Konstantin’s lieutenants. He’s a big guy, with a shaved head, and a scar across his jaw. Recognition flashes in his eyes before he raises his weapon towards me.
I shoot him twice in the chest and he drops.
He doesn’t deserve mercy.
The battle pushes out into the parking lot. There’s more room to maneuver but also more exposure. I see Vincent across the lot, fighting with his men, and there’s something almost satisfying about seeing Vera’s father fighting to protect her and allying with the Volkovs.
The Ashfords are proving themselves capable allies. Marcus takes out two hostiles with controlled bursts. And Vincent himself drops a man trying to breach the clinic’s back entrance.
We’rewinning. Slowly and bloodily, but we’re winning.
And then I see him.
Alexei.
He’s standing across the parking lot, gun in hand, surrounded by the remains of Konstantin’s forces. Our eyes lock, and for a moment time seems to stop.
My baby brother looks at me with cold calculation instead of love. The betrayal hits fresh and sharp, like someone’s driving a knife between my ribs.
Then he’s moving but not toward me. He’s moving towards the clinic, circling to the back entrance.
Toward the exam rooms where Vera is.
“Oh, you’re not getting near her,” I snarl.
I give chase, leaving Viktor to coordinate the main fight. Alexei disappears through a service entrance and I follow, weapon raised and clearly corners easily.
