Page 50 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

By the time I reach the legal room, Leonid is still on his feet.

The place is wrecked. Binders ripped open. Registry copies across the floor. One fireproof drawer hanging out of its cabinet. Leonid stands near the long table with blood running down his temple and a pistol in both hands. Two men are down near the archive shelves. Another is crawling toward the door, dragging one useless leg behind him.

Leonid sees me and jerks his chin toward the west side. “They came for the live chains first. Someone’s clearance opened the inner grid.”

My senior security chief. The man who knew every blind spot, every route, every guard change.

Leonid’s eyes meet mine. “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, someone above him approved this.”

My teeth grind once.

“Karpov.”

I give Leonid one hard nod.

“Hold this room.”

“I’ve got it,” he says, though he looks ready to drop.

I move. I left Elena behind. That thought hits hard as I cut through the back passage toward my suite. The door is open when I get there.

Empty. The bed is ruffled. One lamp is down. The balcony doors are closed. No Elena. I check the bathroom, dressing room, sitting room, then the hall. Nothing. My pulse turns heavy in my neck, but I force it down and think where she would go. She isn’t in the legal room. The control room is locked. The chapel leaves her exposed. The front hall puts her in plain sight. Kitchen. Service routes. She’s smart enough to look for movement.

I take the side stairs fast and hear movement near the linen cupboard. A maid cracks the door open, eyes wide, her face white, apron bunched in her fists.

“Have you seen her?” I ask.

She opens her mouth and gives me pieces. “Miss Elena, she was, I heard men, kitchen, blood, I didn’t, they said package and I hid, sir, I didn’t mean⁠—”

I catch her shoulders. “Where?”

She shakes harder.

I tap her cheek once, then again, not hard enough to hurt. Enough to bring her back. “Where?”

“The kitchen,” she gasps. “They took her through the kitchen.”

I’m already running.

The kitchen doors hang open. One hinge is bent. A guard lies by the pantry, dead. A torn strip of dark fabric is caught in a half-open drawer. My robe. Blood streaks the tile where they forced her down.

The power is half back, enough for the overheads to flicker and show the ugly parts in pieces. Zip-tie ends on the floor. Gravel tracked inside. A handprint on the stainless steel, small and smeared red.

Hers.

One of my men appears at the rear passage. “Pakhan. West court. SUV convoy.”

I hit the service door as engines growl outside. By the time I reach the court, the last SUV is already tailing off through the west gate. For one second I stand there in blood, sweat, and gun smoke, hands flexing uselessly at my sides while the red taillights vanish between the trees.

I sprint toward where my vehicles are parked. One SUV is missing from the line. Another sits dead under the service lamps with the rear door hanging open and blood on the step. A house driver lies faceup by the wall with half his throat gone. He’s one of mine. Or he was. His badge still clips his belt. They didn’t come to hit the estate and run blindly. They came to take her.

Dima cuts out of the service passage at a run, one arm snapping two men toward the west gate, the other locking his compact rifle tight to his chest. Blood marks the front of his shirt, none of it his.

“West forestry cut. Two vehicles. Maybe three. One larger tail car. They had codes, route timings, and a clean lane out.”

“Who saw her loaded?”

“Kitchen staff. One guard before he went under. She was alive.”