I brake hard, the ABS pulsing through my foot. The sedan slews sideways, coming to rest at a slanted angle that provides the engine block as a shield but leaves the passenger side exposed. The first SUV is forty seconds behind us.
"Stay in the car." I am already reaching for the weapon, checking the load. Twelve rounds. Suppressed. No sparemagazine—I grabbed the pistol in the rush of the escape, not the full tactical rig. I had planned to avoid contact. I had planned for a clean disappearance.
Plan failed.
"Lock the doors. Stay low," I order.
"No."
The word is a physical barrier. I turn to look at him.
Nikolai is ashen. His hands are shaking with a fine, visible tremor. He looks exactly like what he is—a malnourished captive who has been starved and broken for weeks. He has no business being anywhere near a live fire engagement.
But his gray eyes are steady. His jaw is a hard line.
"No," he repeats. "I'm not staying in the car while you die trying to be a hero."
"You are not trained for?—"
"I don't care about the training." He reaches for the door handle. "You haven't slept in two days. You can barely keep your head up. If they're coming to kill us, I'd rather die beside you than survive because you threw yourself away for an asset."
The logic is flawed. He is a tactical liability. He will divide my attention. He will reduce my probability of survival.
But there is no time left for logic. The SUV has skidded to a halt at the edge of the property, kicking up a cloud of dust and frozen dirt.
"Stay behind me," I say, my voice dropping back into the monotone of the Monster. "Move when I move. Do not attempt to engage."
I exit the vehicle. The cold air hits my face like a physical slap, clearing the cobwebs from my mind for one precious moment. I take my position behind the sedan’s engine block.
The SUV stops fifty meters away. Doors open. Two figures emerge, dressed in the same black tactical gear I wore for thirteen years. They take cover behind their open doors. Sidearms drawn. Stable stances. Professional.
A third vehicle is approaching; I can hear the roar of the engine from the east. Thirty seconds until the engagement zone is saturated.
Two targets now. Minimum two more incoming. Twelve rounds.
"Alexei Morozov." A voice comes from the SUV, amplified by a speaker. "Ivan wants you breathing. A live asset can be reconditioned. Surrender the Petrenko and submit to extraction. Non-compliance will result in terminal sanction."
Terminal sanction. Execution. The order is absolute.
I don’t respond. I am counting. I am calculating the trajectory of the wind and the angle of the light. The speaker is on the left. The second operative is on the right. They are overconfident. They assume a sleep-deprived defector with a wounded captive is a low-threat target.
I will use that assumption to bury them.
"Final warning. Surrender the asset."
I fire.
The first round takes the speaker in the shoulder. Center mass was the goal, but the angle of the SUV door limited the target area. He spins, his weapon clattering to the gravel as he drops. The second operative returns fire immediately—two shots that punch through my windshield, the glass shattering into a thousand diamonds that rain down onto the seats.
I’ve already moved. I roll around the rear of the sedan, finding a new line of sight. The operative is still tracking my previous position. He realizes his error a fraction of a second too late.
Third round. Center mass. He staggers.
Fourth round. Head. His skull snaps back, and he collapses into the dirt.
One neutralized. One incapacitated.
But the noise comes from behind me. A roar of an engine. Vehicle Three—the interceptor—has bypassed the road and flanked us through the farmhouse ruins. They were faster than the manual predicted.
