We head through the steel door and wind up in a narrow corridor with walls lined with pipes. The temperature rises here, humidity clinging to the air.
The farther down the hall we make it, the clearer the sounds of voices become.
Fedorov’s soldiers. What else could it be?
Aleksei leads us up a flight of stairs, pausing every few steps to make sure nobody’s headed down before pressing on.
We’ve almost made it to the top when that possibility’s crushed.
The door swings open ahead of us and a guard steps out, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a phone in his hand.
He freezes as he sees us, eyes going wide.
Aleksei’s on him before he can make a sound. His fist connects with his jaw and sends the cigarette flying.
The guard stumbles sideways, fumbling for the radio at his belt, but I rush up and grab him by the throat and slam him into the wall. The impact knocks the breath out of him, and before he can recover, I wrap my arm around his neck and squeeze ’til his body goes limp.
I lower him to the ground, pulse pounding in my ears.
“One down,” I grunt.
Aleksei nods, then turns to keep moving up the last few steps.
We make it through the door into another corridor, this one plainer but obviously part of the main house. The walls are an off white and the floor’s sleek and made up of dark wood.
We encounter the second guard as we leave the corridor behind and enter some type of large atrium.
He’s standing nearby, more alert and decisive than the first guard. He shouts in Russian and reaches for his gun.
Lochlan throws himself at him. The two men tumble to the ground, locked in a scuffle. The guard manages to get his finger around the trigger and pull. But it’s only half a second before Lochlan manages to drive a knife into the man’s throat.
The damage has been done. The bullet’s gone astray, but the loud, resounding bang echoes through the hall. It must spread to other parts of the house.
An alarm goes off, a red light high up toward the ceiling flashing.
The next thing we know, the corridor’s being flooded with Fedorov’s men.
“So much for stealth,” Aleksei growls, pulling his gun.
“Plan B it is,” I say, doing the same.
They come from the opposite end of the atrium, a flood of black-clad guards ready to handle whatever threat has emerged.
There’s no time to think or strategize.
We’re in the thick of the fight we were trying to avoid.
I fire twice and drop the first soldier as he levels his weapon. Lochlan takes out another with a shot to the head then ducks behind a pillar as bullets chew up the wall beside him. Aleksei is a force of nature, his massive frame absorbing ablow from one enforcer. He follows up by snapping the man’s neck with his bare hands.
But more keep coming. Too many for three men.
Soon we’ve each taken cover behind the pillars in the atrium, using them to shield ourselves.
I lose track of how many I hit and the ones I miss. The world narrows to muzzle flashes and the kick of the gun in my hand and the spray of blood when a bullet finds its mark.
…including the bullet that grazes my right shoulder.
I release a roar, stepping back behind the pillar. My left hand lifts up to touch the wound and comes away with fresh blood.
