Putain.Lazarev.
Grigor Lazarev. A Russian demolitions expert I faced off with in Afghanistan. The bastard who blamed me when his intelligence failure in Yemen got civilians killed. The one who swore he'd make me pay for the commendation I got while he got dishonorably discharged—because I told the truth in my after-action report.
He's here. In Prague. Hunting the same target.
And he just rigged the building to come down on top of me.
The floor shudders beneath my feet. Structural failure imminent. The window is my only option—second story drop, but better than being buried in rubble.
Running for the nearest window, I sling the bag's strap across my chest and don't slow down. Glass explodes around me as I dive through, arms protecting my head. Gravity takes over. The ground rushes up fast.
I hit the pavement hard. The shoulder roll distributes the impact, but concrete doesn't give. Something cracks in my ribs—not broken, but close. Pain explodes through my shoulder, white-hot and immediate. The messenger bag digs into my chest, bruising. My vision blurs for a second.
Get up. Move.
My body screams in protest but I force myself to my feet, stumbling forward. Every breath feels like broken glass. Behind me, the building groans—a sound like a dying animal, metal shrieking against metal.
The charge detonates.
The blast wave hits me from behind, a physical force that shoves me forward. I throw myself into a sprint, ignoring the pain, ignoring everything except distance. The support beam fails with a sound like a gunshot. Then another. Then a dozen more as the structure comes apart.
The building collapses in on itself with a roar that shakes the ground beneath my boots. Debris rains down—chunks of concrete, twisted metal, burning insulation. Something hot grazes my shoulder. The air fills with dust and smoke and the chemical stench of burning plastic.
Heat washes over me in waves, superheated air that sears my lungs even through the scarf. The percussion rattles my teeth, drowns out everything else.
I don't stop running until I clear the parking lot, putting the truck between me and the collapsing warehouse.
Isabella's out of the truck, standing beside it with her hands pressed to her mouth. When she sees me, relief floods her features—raw and unguarded for just a second before control slams back down.
"You got it," she says as I reach her.
"Get in." I yank the bag's strap over my head and thrust it at her, then move around to the driver's side. "Now."
This time she doesn't argue. We're in the truck and moving as the burning wreckage sends a plume of smoke and debris into the night sky.
I take the first corner hard, tires screaming against cobblestone. My ribs protest every gear shift, every turn of the wheel. The adrenaline's wearing off and the pain's getting sharper, more insistent. I taste blood—bit my tongue during the landing.
Check the rearview mirror. The warehouse burns like a funeral pyre, black smoke billowing into the night sky. No pursuit yet, but they'll come. The Iron Choir doesn't abandon operations just because things get messy.
I check again—figures moving in the firelight. Mercs regrouping around their vehicles. And somewhere in that chaos, if my gut's right, Lazarev is watching. Calculating. Planning his next move.
This extraction just became personal.
Beside me, Isabella clutches her bag to her chest like a shield. Her breathing's hard, fast, but controlled. Not hyperventilating. Not panicking. Her eyes stay locked on the burning building receding behind us, watching it shrink in the side mirror.
Her hands are steady despite the adrenaline. Despite nearly dying. Despite watching me dive through a second-story window and barely survive the collapse.
Most people would be shaking. Most people would be crying or screaming or demanding explanations, flooding me with questions I don't have time to answer.
She's silent. Thinking. Processing.
Smart.
I navigate through Prague's narrow streets with tactical precision. Hard right onto a one-way street going the wrong direction—force any tail to make a choice, slow them down. Doubling back through an alley barely wide enough for the truck, mirrors scraping brick. Left turn that's really a U-turn, using parked cars as cover. Through a plaza where late-night foot traffic makes speed impossible, blending with civilian vehicles.
The truck's handling well enough, responsive despite the bulk. But it's not built for this kind of evasion. It's built for transport, for looking normal, for not attracting attention.
Right now we're anything but normal.
