Page 81 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

We move into the maze of rusted shipping containers, the cold mist swallowing our shapes within three steps.

A sharp, heavy footstep echoes from the narrow gap between two green containers to my left.

I stop, my hand coming up to halt Lev. The outline of a Russo enforcer appears through the fog, his rifle held across his chest, the red dot of his laser sight reflecting faintly in the wet puddles on the concrete. He’s looking toward the main gate, his shoulders tense as the gunshots from Petr’s team start to rattle through the western sector.

"Is that the gate patrol?" The guard speaks into his shoulder radio, his voice sharp with a sudden, nervous static. "The gate detail isn't answering the relay."

I don't give him a second to listen to the silence.

I close the distance before he can even turn his head. I slide behind him, my good right hand coming up to wrap over his mouth, my thick fingers crushing his lips against his teeth to choke out the scream. I drive my tactical combat knife straight up through his jaw, the thick, serrated blade tearing through the soft flesh and entering his skull. His body shudders violently, his boots scraping against the gravel before he goes completely limp in my grip.

I lower him slowly to the ground, his blood warm and sticky against my bare hand.

One.

"Clear," I whisper to Lev.

We move deeper into the container stacks. The fog is getting thicker, the cold air turning into a wet, heavy shroud that clings to my face.

"Two more on the secondary channel," Lev says, his head turning as he catches the low murmur of voices near the crane track. "They have the slipway exit covered."

"Stay in the shadows," I say, my hand reaching for a heavy iron pipe resting against the container wall. "Let them look at the gate."

The two Russo guards are standing near a burning fuel drum, the orange flames casting long, flickering shadows across their wet coats. They’re holding cigarettes, their faces tight with a sudden, anxious dread as the gunfire from the dry dock grows louder, more frantic.

"We should go back to the boat," the taller one says, flicking his ash into the fire. "Mikhail is a maniac. He’s going to get us trapped on the river."

"Mikhail has the cash," the other replies, his hand resting on his holster. "The Vostok family paid him five million to clear the northern channel. We stay until the lines are cast."

I step out of the fog, the iron pipe swinging in a wide, heavy arc.

The metal crashes directly against the side of the taller guard's skull with a sickening, wet crunch. His eyes roll back, his body hitting the concrete like a sack of wet coal, his head split open from his ear to his crown.

The second guard screams, his hand scrambling for his pistol, but I don't give him the chance to clear the leather. I drop the pipe, my right hand grabbing his throat, my thumb driving deep into his windpipe until the cartilage snaps with a sharp, dry pop. He chokes, his knees bucking as I lift him off the ground, my fingers squeezing until his eyes go wide, bloodshot, and completely dark.

I toss his body into the burning fuel drum, the scent of singed wool and burning flesh instantly filling the wet air.

Two. Three.

"Ilya, the eastern gate is clear," Lev says, his boots splashing through a puddle as he runs to my side. "But the dock patrol is coming down the track. We have company."

A sudden hail of automatic gunfire shatters the wet wood of the shipping crates behind us, the splinters raining down onto my shoulders like dry needles. Two more Russo enforcers are running through the fog, their muzzle flashes lighting up the grey mist in bright, orange bursts.

I throw myself behind a stack of steel plates, my chest slamming against the metal. The impact drives the air from my lungs, a blinding white wall of pain shooting through my dislocated shoulder as the duct tape stretches against my skin. I scream, the sound lost in the roar of the gunfire, but I don't stay down.

"Lev, flank them!" I roar, my good arm rising to rest the barrel of my rifle on the top of the steel plates.

I squeeze the trigger.

The rifle barks, three heavy rounds punching through the chest of the closest guard. He’s thrown backward by the force of the impact, his rifle flying from his hands as his body hits the gravel with a dull thud.

The fifth guard turns to run toward the slipway, his boots slipping on the wet wood of the pier, but I’m already on my feet. I sprint through the pain, my dislocated shoulder hanging loose, my torn stitches leaking a steady stream of red down my leg. I tackle him from behind, our bodies crashing heavily onto the concrete slipway.

I roll over, pinning him beneath my weight. He’s screaming, his hands clawing at my face, but I grab a heavy concrete brick from the debris pile and bring it down directly across his face.

Smack.

The concrete shatters, his nose flattening into his skull, his teeth breaking into a wet, bloody mess. He doesn't move again.