A crash sounds from the corridor outside, followed by more gunfire. Viktor makes a split-second decision.
“This way. Now.”
He leads us to a utility closet, revealing a ventilation grate behind the shelving unit. “Straight for twenty meters, then left. You’ll find an access panel above the panic room. Three knocks, pause, two more. Oleg will know it’s friendly.”
“What about you?” I ask.
Viktor checks his weapon again. “I’ll buy you time.”
Before I can protest, the kitchen door explodes inward. Viktor shoves us into the closet, slamming it shut behind us as gunfire erupts.
Elena and I scramble into the ventilation shaft, her hands shaking as she secures the grate behind us. We crawl forward in the cramped space, the sounds of battle fading behind us.
“Bella,” Elena whispers as we navigate the metal tunnel. “If we die here, I’m going to be so pissed at you.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “Noted.”
We reach the junction Viktor described, turning left as instructed. Up ahead, I can see light filtering through another grate.
Voices drift up from below—unfamiliar, speaking rapid Russian. I freeze, signaling Elena to stop.
Through the grate, I can see part of a room. Men in tactical gear move efficiently through the space, weapons drawn. And at the center of it all, directing them with imperious gestures, is Tatiana.
My blood runs cold.
“Find the children,” she orders in accented English. “No one else matters. Kill anyone who gets in your way.”
“And the American woman?” one of the men asks. “Belov’s wife?”
Tatiana’s laugh is chilling. “Especially her.”
Another figure steps into view, and my heart stops.
Irina.
Beside me, Elena’s breathing has gone shallow, her knuckles white around her gun.
“We need to move,” I mouth silently, fighting back the fear threatening to paralyze me.
My mind is a storm of questions, each one slamming into me harder than the last.
How the hell did I get here? How did I drag Lila and Julian into this? Elena? And the baby inside me?We inch forward, away from the grate, toward where Viktor said the panic room access would be.
Another turn. Another grate. I press my face to the slats, eyes straining to see through the narrow gaps.
A small, windowless room comes into view. Oleg stands guard, weapon drawn, his jaw clenched tight. Behind him, the children are huddled together. Julian has positioned himself in front of Lila and the younger kids, shoulders squared, jaw set — looking far too old for 17.
I tap the pattern Viktor told us—three knocks, pause, two more.
Oleg’s head snaps up, his gun immediately training on the grate.
“Identify,” he demands.
“It’s Bella,” I whisper urgently. “And Elena. Let us in.”
Relief flashes across his weathered face. He reaches up, unlatching the grate. “Quickly.”
We drop down into the panic room, Elena landing with surprising grace beside me.
