As she quiets, there are no more distractions. I slump into myself and stare at the wall, cycling through it all.
The attack. The bodies. The blood.
Rolan.
I’ve been sleeping in his bed for two weeks. I’ve been eating breakfast across from him, making his daughter hot chocolate, and letting him touch me all this time. I’ve been telling myself a story about who he is — complicated and dangerous, yes, but contained and manageable also. A man with rules, even if the rules are his own.
The man I saw walk through that archway was not that man.
Or he was that man. He was that man, and I hadn’t seen him clearly yet.
There’s no ignoring it now. This isn’t some job shrouded in mystery and secrets. This is a hell all in its own.
And Rolan might be the devil himself.
27
ROLAN
The first explosion hits at fourteen minutes past three.
I’m at my desk when it happens.
The floor moves before the bang arrives, the concussion traveling through the foundation of the house faster than air carries noise. My body is already moving.
Alexei comes through the door in under two minutes. His jacket is on, and his weapon is drawn.
“Dushku,” he says. “South wing. At least twelve men on the perimeter, possibly more. He came through the garden wall.”
“Casualties?”
“Two of ours down. Four of his. They’re still moving.”
“Mikhail?”
“Already on it.”
“I need him to move Anya and Elizabeth to the safe room. Now. Before this gets to the main house.” I look at him. “Don’t let them see anything.”
Alexei nods, already on his phone. He knows the priority without being told, has known it since the day Anya was born. The estate can sustain damage. Personnel can be replaced. Thetwo people currently somewhere in the residential wing cannot.
“Safe room confirmed,” he says. “Mikhail is moving them.”
The knot in my chest releases a fraction. I pocket my phone and follow Alexei into the corridor. The noise outside gets louder with every step toward the south side of the house.
The garden is already gone.
Not destroyed —taken.
Dushku’s men have breached the outer wall at at least three points and established positions along the hedgerow that flanks the eastern approach. They’re armed at a level that exceeds what I’d expect from the Albanian operation alone. Heavier weapons. Coordinated movement.
He found allies.
I lead from the front like I always have. I need to know what’s happening, and the only way to know is to be there. My men work better with me among them. This is a fact, not an opinion, established over fifteen years.
We push them back from the hedgerow. Alexei takes the east flank. I take the center.
The fighting is close and fast. I stop counting the individual engagements. There’s a rhythm to it. I’ve been doing it long enough that the rhythm runs without conscious direction, which leaves the conscious part of my mind free to read the larger pattern.
