We fall into rhythm instantly. Years of shared hell don’t need words. He covers high, I cover low. He advances, I anchor. Glass explodes around us, bullets chewing through what used to be tasteful décor. White roses burst apart in sprays of petals and vase water. Somewhere a chandelier flickers and then steadies.
“This was supposed to be cake and small talk,” King mutters, reloading.
“Still is,” I grunt. “Just… louder.”
Another wave pushes in from the east corridor. These ones are better trained. Tighter formation. Coordinated. They aren’t random mercenaries or hired muscle. Their shots are disciplined. Their spacing is deliberate. Their retreat patterns are too clean.
Mikhail’s inner circle.
“Contacts, three o’clock,” I snap.
“I see ’em.”
We engage.
It’s fast. Brutal. No room for hesitation. A man lunges at me with a blade—I catch his wrist, twist, hear the satisfying pop of something giving way, and put him down before he can scream. King fires past my shoulder, clipping another attacker in the neck. Somebody else goes down behind a dessert cart. The whole ballroom smells like blood, sugar, and singed velvet.
My pulse roars in my ears.
Where is he?
Mikhail doesn’t lead from the front. He never has. He watches. Directs. Controls. Lets other men die to buy him time and angles and data.
Which means—
“He’ll be near command,” I mutter. “Somewhere with eyes on everything.”
King nods. “Upper offices.”
“Exactly.”
We split without argument.
I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the burn in my legs, ignoring the smoke creeping through the halls. My radio crackles with Delilah’s voice, steady and sharp despite the inferno behind it.
“West wing secured. Civilians clear.”
Good.
The sound of her voice slices through me in a way that should be distracting and somehow only sharpens me further. Alive. In control. Fighting.
I round a corner and nearly run straight into two hostiles. Drop one. Shoulder-check the other into a door and fire point-blank.
Sorry about the wallpaper.
The hallway ahead is quiet.
Too quiet.
I edge forward, weapon raised, breath slow. Doorways on the left. Offices on the right. Smoke collecting near the ceiling. One emergency light blinking red-red-red like a heartbeat gone wrong.
Then I hear it.
Shouting.
In Russian.
And Delilah’s voice—furious, shaking, deadly calm all at once.
