Page 52 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“Thirty seconds out.”

Good.

A mile farther on, I catch the first sign. Fresh slide marks cut through the mud at the shoulder, wide and deep from a fast correction.

“They pushed too hard through here,” Dima says.

“They think they’re clear.”

He glances at me. “You sound happy about that.”

“I’m not.”

He grunts.

The radio cracks in my console as we clear the last bend before the quarry drop. The road dips, then straightens toward the old concrete works. Headlights off, engine pushing hard.

Ilya’s voice comes through clipped and steady. “Concrete team has eyes. Two black SUVs in the transfer yard. No tail car yet. Four outside. Maybe more inside the vehicles.”

That puts them ahead of us. Less than a minute if they don’t move.

“Do they have her out?” I ask.

A beat. Then, “Negative. Rear door open on one vehicle. Movement around it. Hard to see.”

I ease off just enough to take the final turn clean. The yard sits past the broken gate, maybe twelve minutes from the estate if a man drives clean. They chose it because it sits off the main road, with enough space for a vehicle switch and enough cover to think I’d tear straight past toward the highway. It comes into view under patched security lamps and spill from the convoy beams.

Two black SUVs. One angled toward the exit road. One broadside near the loading bay. Men moving around the second vehicle. Doors open. Guns out.

And Elena in the middle of them.

Even from this distance, I know her. Bare legs under a twisted robe. Hair dragged half out. Hands tied in front now, probably so they can move her faster. One man has a fist in her arm. Another stands too close behind her with a pistol tucked near her ribs.

My hands tighten on the wheel. “Box the exit,” I say.

Dima answers into the radio before I finish. “Rear car, take right. Concrete team, hold until we hit. Nobody shoots through her.”

I jam the SUV forward, lights off, engine screaming, and hit the yard at speed. The first man sees us half a second too late. He turns with his rifle coming up and then my front bumper takes him at the hip and throws him clear into the side of the loading ramp. I crank the wheel and drive straight at the exit-facing SUV. Metal slams metal. Their rear end kicks hard and spins. Doors fly wide. Somebody starts firing. Glass bursts out of my passenger window and Dima answers with a short, controlled burst that drops the shooter across the hood.

I’m out before the engine settles.

The man holding Elena jerks her in front of him and tries to backpedal toward cover. He gets two steps. That is all.

I hit him so hard we both lose our footing. Elena rips free sideways and goes down on one knee. He brings the pistol around. I catch his wrist, slam it into the SUV frame until the gun falls, then drive my hand into his throat and keep driving until cartilage gives under my palm. He drops, choking, and I leave him there.

Another one comes at me from the loading bay with a knife. He gets close enough to slash my sleeve before I catch his forearm, break the elbow backward, and put my forehead through his nose. He folds. I take his own knife and bury it under his jaw in one push.

Shots crack from the far side of the yard.

Ilya and the rear car team hit then, right on time, cutting the exit lane and forcing the remaining men back toward the concrete wall. One of them tries to run the fence. A scoped rifle drops him before he gets halfway there. Another dives behind the second SUV and starts firing under the chassis. Dima moves left, drops to one knee, and sends two rounds through the lower door seam. The firing stops.

“Elena,” I say.

My voice comes out rough, and I hear fear before I can bury it.

She stays on one knee by the rear wheel, breathing hard, face bloodied, eyes locked on me. She saw what I did, and I’ll deal with that later if we both make it back.

A man comes out of the dark behind her and grabs her hair. I know him at once. Moretti’s man, not mine. My mistake. I left her blind side open. He pays for it.