Page 107 of Cruel Submission

Stefan arrives first—always first, dropping into his usual chair at my right hand. He’s changed out of the suit he wore to the engagement and into a dark Henley and tactical boots, and I know without asking that there’s a Glock in his waistband and a blade strapped to his ankle.

Yanis comes through the door with Mikhail a step behind. My brother looks drawn—pale beneath the stubble, eyes carrying the flatness of a man who’s spent the last four hours holding a traumatized woman together and is running on whatever fumes remain. Mikhail, my cousin, has his tablet under his arm and a Red Bull in his hand, his default operating configuration. The kid could hack into the Kremlin from a toilet cubicle and probably has.

Leo is next. He sets a worn leather notebook on the table and flips it open. Unlike Mikhail, Leo has never trusted digital notes. Says a bullet can’t corrupt a notebook. I’ve never argued the point.

The twins arrive together. Aleksei and Andrei take chairs at the far end of the table and sit in that unnerving mirrored stillness of theirs—same angle, same posture, same flat surveillance in their eyes.

Last through the door is Yuri. Our medic. He’s been with Kolya for the past two hours, patching the shoulder wound. There’s dried blood on his forearms—Kolya’s, Pasha’s, maybe both—and he doesn’t bother rolling down his sleeves before sitting. We’ve all seen enough blood not to worry about it.

I wait until the door is shut. Lock it.

Seven men. The seven I’d trust with my life, with Mirabel’s life, with my children’s lives. Every other person on my payroll is a resource. These men are family.

I plant my hands on the table, leaning over the spread of security schematics Stefan pulled from the system an hour ago. Ashwater Heights in blueprint—every gate, every wall, every blind spot I swore didn’t exist until tonight proved otherwise.

“The old bastard will be back.” My voice is flat, carrying no heat. This is no time for hotheadedness. “What happened today was the opening move. He’ll escalate. Different approach, more men, worse timing. That’s how he operates.”

The room absorbs this without reaction. Nobody here is naive enough to argue otherwise.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Stefan asks. Same question he’s asked me a hundred times before raids, before extractions, before nights like this.

I straighten. “Full security lockdown. Effective now, running indefinitely. Nobody enters or exits this property without clearance from Stefan or me.” I look at Mikhail. “The surveillance systems failed today. Not completely—but enough. We didn’t spot the convoy until it was at the gate. That’s too late. I need thermal cameras on every approach road within a mile radius. Motion sensors along the perimeter wall—not the commercial garbage we’ve got now, military-grade. Seismic sensors at the gate foundations. If a rabbit crosses our property line at three in the morning, I want to know about it before it takes its next hop.”

Mikhail is already typing, the tablet balanced on his knee. “I can source the thermals from my contact in Tallinn. The seismic sensors will take forty-eight hours—I’ll have to pull them from a defense contractor I’ve worked with before. But the motion array I can install myself by tomorrow night.”

“Do it. Budget is irrelevant.”

Mikhail nods without looking up. Numbers are already scrolling across his screen.

I turn to Yanis. My brother has been quiet, and not the quiet that comes from facing an enemy. The situation with Debra is weighing on him.

“The women,” Yanis says. “Mirabel is pregnant. Debra is—” He stops. “Debra is managing. But tonight set her back. If he comes again and she’s anywhere near it, we could lose months of recovery. Harrison’s work, the stability we’ve built—all of it. Gone.”

I’ve already thought about this.

“Panic buttons,” I say. “Both of them. Wearable, not phone-based—something they can activate without having to unlock a screen or find a device in a bag. Direct line to Stefan’s team with GPS coordinates. And I want the response time under ninety seconds from any point on this property.”

Stefan is writing it down. “I’ll have them fitted tomorrow. Custom units. Natalia can do the housings so they look like jewelry. Mirabel won’t want to wear something that screams I’m a target.”

“Good.” The last thing I need is Mirabel throwing a fit about this. She needs to stay calm for the baby’s sake. “Armored vehicles. Every car on this property gets swapped or retrofitted. No more standard transport. I don’t care if it’s a trip to the hospital or a run to the fucking shops—ballistic glass, reinforced chassis, run-flat tires.”

“I’ve got a contact at a specialist firm,” Stefan says. “They do diplomatic fleet conversions. I can have two vehicles within the week. More after that.”

“Make it three. One for Mirabel, one for Debra, one for general use.”

“Done.”

I shift my attention to Leo, who hasn’t spoken yet.

“Weapons cache. Double it,” I say. “I want secondary armories established in the east wing and the basement. Sealed cabinets, biometric access—me, Stefan, and Leo only. If we get hit again, I don’t want anyone running across the house to the gun room in dress shoes.”

Leo makes a single notation in his notebook. Looks up. “Kolya and Pasha need replacing on the rotation while they recover. I can pull two from the outer team, but they’ll need briefing on the interior layout.”

“Do it today. And Leo—” I hold his attention. “Safe handling protocols. Written, drilled, no exceptions. Every weapon on this property accounted for and secured.”

He nods.

“Aleksei, Andrei,” I say.