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The moment the vehicles roll to a stop, we’re spilling out into the night. The cool night air hits me, the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves filling my nostrils.

Gunfire erupts immediately, muzzle flashes strobing in the darkness. Bullets whine past my head, thudding into the ground at my feet.

“Take cover!” Maksim roars, his voice barely audible over the deafening chatter of automatic weapons.

We scatter, diving behind vehicles and trees, returning fire with a vengeance. I catch a glimpse of Leo’s men flanking the house, while Brennan, Sokolov, and my men get into position.

I’m not fucking waiting here. I sprint toward the house, my gun barking in my hand, my blood singing with the thrill of violence.

A man looms up in front of me, his face contorted in a snarl, his rifle swinging toward me.

I don’t hesitate.

My knife flashes out with a quick, brutal slash across his throat. He goes down gurgling, his hot blood splattering across my face.

I leap over his twitching body and keep running. More men pour out of the house, shouting and firing. I take them down, my gun and knife working in perfect harmony.

We burst through the front door like a battering ram, splinters flying, hinges screeching in protest. Maksim is first through the breach, his massive frame filling the doorway, his rifle already barking in his hands.

He’s a force of nature, unstoppable and unrelenting, cutting down the first wave of guards before they can even react.

God he’s such a scary motherfucker. It’s hard to believe he actually gave all of this up to be a family man.

Immediately, a thought of Maksim Sokolov wearing a pink apron with KISS THE COOK flies into my mind and it takes everything in me to not double over with laughter.

Focus, you idiot.

I’m right on Maksim’s heels, my own weapon spitting fire, the kick of the recoil a familiar shock up my arms.

We fan out into the foyer, taking cover behind overturned furniture as more of Russo’s men pour in from adjoining rooms.

It’s chaos, a deafening din of gunfire and screams, shattering glass and splintering wood.

The air reeks of cordite and blood, a cloying, copper-rich stench that coats the back of my throat.

Behind us, Cillian and Leo charge in with their own teams, their eyes alight with a cold, focused fury.

They peel off to either side, sweeping through the ground floor, the chatter of their weapons a constant, staccato counterpoint to the bellows and groans of the dying.

A bullet whistles past my ear, and it’s close enough to ruffle my hair.

I spin, dropping to one knee, my gun already tracking the shooter. He’s crouched at the top of the stairs, using the bannister for cover as he tries to pick us off.

Fucker.

I put a round through his forehead before he can fire again, and a neat black hole appears just above his right eye. He slumps forward, his rifle clattering down the steps, his body tumbling after it in a limp, boneless sprawl.

“Upstairs!” I roar, already bounding up the steps two and three at a time.

My heart is a jackhammer in my chest, adrenaline surging through my veins like an electric current.

Katerina is up there somewhere, alone and probably in pain, and every second I waste down here is a second she spends in hell.

But the upper floor is a killing field, a narrow, blood-slick corridor with death waiting around every corner.

Russo’s men are dug in deep, popping out of doorways and alcoves, forcing us to fight for every inch of ground.

I take a round in the shoulder, the impact spinning me half around, the pain a white-hot lance through my flesh. “Fuck!” I bark, gritting my teeth. But there’s no time to do anything but keep fighting and cutting a path through the carnage to the woman I love.