Chapter 24 - Misha
The compound is a fortress.
I study it through binoculars from our position on the ridge, cataloging defenses. High concrete walls topped with razor wire. Guard towers at each corner, manned by men with automatic weapons. Cameras covering every approach, every angle. Floodlights that turn the perimeter into a killing ground.
Sergei has been preparing for this. He knew I would come.
He's right.
"Sixteen guards on the perimeter," Dmitri says beside me. "Another twenty inside, probably more. They've got the main entrance locked down tight."
"The eastern wall?"
"Weaker. There's a gap in the camera coverage where two of them overlap—creates a blind spot for about thirty seconds every rotation. It's not much."
"It's enough."
I lower the binoculars and turn to face the men assembled behind me. Twelve of my best—handpicked for this mission, each one willing to die for what we're about to do. Dmitri's men are positioned on the opposite ridge, ready to provide the distraction we need.
Lenkov gave us the location before he died. Not willingly—I had to carve it out of him piece by piece. But in the end, he told me everything. The compound's layout, the guard rotations, the underground level where Sergei keeps his prisoners.
Where he's keeping Bianca.
I check my weapon one final time. Pistol, extra magazines, knife strapped to my thigh. I'm dressed in black, my face darkened with greasepaint, every piece of equipment secured to prevent noise.
"Remember the plan," I say. "Dmitri hits the main entrance with everything he's got. Maximum noise, maximum chaos. Draw their attention, make them think it's a full assault. While they're focused on the front, we go in through the east wall."
"And if we encounter resistance?"
"Kill them. Every man in that compound chose to work for Sergei. They know what he does, what he is. No mercy."
The men nod. They understand. This isn't a rescue mission—it's an execution.
I check my watch. Three minutes until Dmitri's assault begins.
Three minutes until I get her back.
The explosion lights up the night.
Dmitri's team hits the main gate with everything they have—RPGs, automatic weapons, grenades. The guards in the front towers go down in the first seconds, their bodies tumbling from their posts like broken dolls. Alarms blare. Floodlights swing toward the chaos at the front entrance.
"Move," I say.
We're running before the echoes fade, sprinting across the open ground toward the eastern wall. The darkness covers us, the noise from the front masking our approach. I count the seconds in my head—fifteen until the camera rotation brings us back into view.
We reach the wall with five seconds to spare.
"Grapples," I order.
Four lines sail over the razor wire, hooks catching on the far side. We scale the wall in seconds, dropping into the compound grounds in a silent rush.
Two guards are running toward the front, their backs to us. I drop them both with suppressed shots—two rounds each, center mass. They fall without a sound.
"Clear the path to the main building," I say. "I'm going underground."
The team splits—half moving to engage the remaining exterior guards, half following me toward the entrance Lenkov described. A service door on the north side of the main building, leading to a stairwell that descends two levels below ground.
Where Sergei keeps his prisoners.
Where he's keeping her.
The service door is locked, but that doesn't stop me for long.
I put two rounds through the mechanism and kick it open, sweeping the stairwell with my weapon raised. Empty. The sounds of battle are muffled down here, distant thunder that makes the concrete walls vibrate.
I descend quickly, my footsteps echoing in the narrow space. One level down. Then another. The air grows colder, damper, heavy with the smell of mildew and something else—something metallic.
Blood.
At the bottom of the stairs, a corridor stretches ahead, lined with steel doors. Cells. A dozen of them, maybe more.
And guards. Three of them, positioned at the far end, weapons raised.
They see me at the same moment I see them.
I move.
The first one goes down before he can pull the trigger—two shots to the chest, one to the head. The second gets a round off, the bullet sparking against the concrete wall beside me, but I'm already closing the distance. My knife finds his throat, and he drops, choking on his own blood.
The third one runs.
I let him go three steps before I shoot him in the back of the head.
Silence.
I stand in the corridor, breathing hard, surrounded by bodies. Three more men dead by my hands. Three more lives ended because they chose to stand between me and what's mine.
I feel nothing. Not satisfaction, not regret. Just cold purpose.
Bianca.
I start checking doors.
The first cell is empty. Bare concrete, a drain in the floor, nothing else.
I move to the second. Also empty.
The third holds a man—beaten, unconscious or dead, I can't tell. Not Bianca. I keep moving.
Fourth cell. Empty.
Fifth. A woman, but older, gray-haired, curled in the corner. She flinches when the door opens, raises her hands to shield her face. Not Bianca.
"Someone will come for you," I tell her. "Stay here."
She doesn't respond. I don't have time to comfort her.
Sixth cell. Empty.
Seventh. A body—male, long dead by the smell. I close the door and move on.
The corridor seems endless, each door a fresh wave of hope and disappointment. My heart pounds harder with every cell I check, every face that isn't hers. What if Lenkov lied? What if she's not here? What if Sergei moved her, killed her, what if I'm too late—
Eighth cell. Empty.
Ninth. Empty.
Tenth.
The door is heavier than the others—reinforced steel, with a solid deadbolt on the outside. I throw back the bolt and push the door open.
She's there.
Huddled against the far wall, her hands bound behind her, a chain running from her wrist to a bolt in the concrete. Her face is bruised, her lip split, dried blood crusted on her chin. She's pale, trembling, her clothes torn and dirty.
But her eyes—her eyes are alive. Blazing with fear and hope and something fierce that makes my chest ache.
"Misha." My name comes out broken, half sob, half prayer.
I cross the cell in two strides and drop to my knees beside her. My hands find her face, tilting it toward the light, checking for damage. The bruises are bad, but superficial. Her pupils are equal, reactive. She's coherent, conscious, alive.
Alive.
"Are you hurt?" My voice sounds strange—rough, cracked. "Did they—"
"I'm okay." Tears are spilling down her cheeks, but she's smiling. "I'm okay. You found me."
"I'll always find you."
I pull the knife from my thigh and cut through the zip ties binding her wrists. The plastic falls away, revealing raw, bloody skin beneath—she's been fighting against the restraints, trying to free herself. Of course she has. She's never stopped fighting.
The chain is harder. It's attached to a cuff around her wrist, connected to the bolt in the wall. I examine the mechanism—there's a release catch, hidden on the underside of the cuff. I find it, press it, and the metal falls away.
She throws her arms around me.
I catch her, pull her close, hold her so tight I'm afraid I might break her.
She's shaking—her whole body trembling against mine—and I realize I'm shaking too.
This man who has killed without hesitation, who has carved information out of traitors and executed enemies without remorse—I'm trembling like a child because she's alive.
Because she's in my arms. Because I almost lost her.
"I thought—" Her voice is muffled against my chest. "I thought you wouldn't find me in time. I thought—"
"I'm here." I press my lips to her hair, breathing her in. "I'm here. I've got you."
We stay like that for a moment. Just one moment, stolen from the chaos above us.
Then I pull back.
"We have to move. Sergei—"
"He's still here. I heard him giving orders when the fighting started."
"Good." I help her to her feet, steadying her when she sways. "Can you walk?"
"Yes."
She's lying. I can see it in the way she holds herself, the way she winces when she puts weight on her left leg. But she's not going to let that stop her. Neither am I.
I pull a pistol from one of the dead guards and hold it out to her.
"Do you know how to use this?"
She takes it, checks the magazine, racks the slide. The movements are clumsy but competent.
"I'll figure it out."
"If anyone comes at you who isn't me, point and shoot. Don't hesitate."
She nods, her jaw set, her eyes hard.
"Stay behind me," I say. "Stay close."
"Okay."
I turn toward the door, weapon raised, every sense alert.
Time to finish this.
We move through the corridor, stepping over bodies, past the cells I've already checked. Bianca doesn't flinch at the carnage—doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow. She stays close behind me, the pistol held steady in both hands.
The stairwell is still clear. I lead us up, one level, pausing at the landing to listen. Gunfire above—closer now. Dmitri's assault is pushing deeper into the compound.
"This way," I say.
We emerge into the main building—a warehouse space, vast and shadowy, stacked with crates and industrial equipment. Emergency lights cast everything in red, throwing strange shadows across the concrete floor.
Three of Sergei's men are running toward the front entrance, their backs to us. I drop two of them before they know I'm there. The third spins, weapon rising—
Bianca shoots him.
The bullet catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around. I finish him with a headshot before he can recover.
I look at Bianca. She's staring at the body, her face pale, the pistol trembling slightly in her grip.
"You did good," I tell her.
She nods, swallows hard, doesn't lower the weapon. "Where now?"
"Out. We need to—"
A door bangs open on the far side of the warehouse.
Sergei.