29. Erik
ERIK
T he delivery truck lurches as I take another sharp turn, the engine protesting under the strain. In the passenger seat, Alexi grips the dashboard, his laptop balanced precariously on his knees.
“Next time we steal a truck, let’s make sure the drivers don’t have military training,” Dmitri mutters from behind us.
“They weren’t supposed to fight back.” I check the mirrors again. No pursuit yet, but that won’t last. “How long before they reach a phone?”
“Ten minutes at the most. Five if they flag down help.” Nikolai adjusts his tactical vest. “Either way, we’re compromised.”
The commandeering had gone sideways from the start. What should have been a quiet takedown turned into a brawl when the lead driver pulled a knife. By the time we subdued them, both men had escaped into the industrial district behind us.
“Security systems are still down,” Alexi reports, fingers flying across his keyboard. “But if those drivers reach Igor before we’re inside...”
“They won’t matter.” I take the final turn toward the Lebedev estate. “We’ll be gone before anyone can respond.”
The compound appears ahead—gray stone walls rising like a fortress against the Moscow skyline. I’ve studied every inch of this place for three days, memorized every guard rotation, every blind spot. The service entrance should be locked down tight.
Instead, the gates swing open as we approach.
I hit the brakes, scanning for threats. “That’s not right.”
“Maybe the timing worked out.” Dmitri checks his weapon. “Delivery was scheduled for nine-thirty.”
“Or it’s a trap.” Nikolai’s voice carries the edge of combat readiness. “Could be the drivers already called it in.”
I ease forward, the truck rolling through the entrance. The courtyard beyond looks normal—a few maintenance workers and some kitchen staff moving between buildings. No obvious signs of alarm.
“Systems are clean,” Alexi confirms. “No internal alerts, no lockdown protocols.”
But something feels wrong. The guards at the gate barely glanced at us, and now I can see one of them in my side mirror, walking fast toward our truck. Not running, but moving with purpose.
“We’ve got company.” I keep my voice level as the guard approaches from behind. “Single target, closing fast.”
The man raises his hand, calling out something I can’t hear through the engine noise. He is not drawing a weapon, but his posture suggests a sense of urgency.
“Could be routine,” Dmitri says. “Wrong truck, wrong entrance.”
The guard breaks into a jog, waving for us to stop.
“Crossed wires,” Nikolai agrees. “He’s trying to redirect us to a different delivery bay.”
I slow the truck, calculating distances to the main building. Katarina is somewhere in that maze of stone and steel, and every second we waste gives Igor more time to discover our deception.
The guard motions us toward a loading bay on the eastern side of the compound. I follow his directions, gravel crunching under the truck’s wheels as we navigate between service vehicles.
“Bay seven,” I mutter, reading the faded numbers above the concrete platform. “Different from what we planned.”
“Adaptable,” Nikolai says. “We work with what we get.”
I back the truck up to the loading dock, the beeping alarm echoing off the warehouse walls. Two kitchen workers emerge from the building, clipboards in hand, looking bored and routine.
“Dmitri, Alexi—you’re unloading.” I cut the engine. “Nikolai and I will circle around to the main building once you’ve established your position.”
My brothers nod, pulling on work caps and grabbing the first few boxes from the truck bed. The kitchen staff barely glances at them, more interested in checking items off their lists than examining faces.
I climb down from the driver’s seat, scanning the compound. The main house rises three stories ahead of us, Katarina, somewhere behind those stone walls. Every window could be hers, every shadow?—
Shouts erupt from the direction of the main gate.
“Fuck.” I spin toward the commotion. Guards are running across the courtyard, radios crackling with urgent voices. Someone barks orders about unauthorized personnel, demanding a full lockdown.
“The drivers,” Alexi says grimly, dropping his box. “They made contact.”
Dmitri’s already moving toward the loading bay entrance. “We go now, or we don’t go at all.”
The kitchen workers look up in confusion as alarms begin blaring throughout the compound. Red lights flash along the warehouse exterior, and I can hear vehicle engines starting up somewhere beyond the main building.
“Move.” Nikolai draws his weapon, leading us through the loading doors into the warehouse interior. “Erik, the truck.”
I pull the detonator from my vest, thumb hovering over the trigger. The explosives Alexi rigged will turn our delivery truck into a spectacular distraction—fire and smoke to draw every guard away from where they are.
“Three seconds,” I call out, following my brothers into the house.
The kitchen doors swing shut behind us as alarms shriek through the compound. Stainless steel surfaces gleam under harsh fluorescent lights, the smell of onions and garlic thick in the air. Two cooks freeze mid-chop, knives suspended over cutting boards.
“Keep working,” Nikolai orders, weapon visible but not aimed. “Pretend we’re not here.”
The older cook nods frantically, resuming his prep work with shaking hands. His younger colleague drops her knife entirely, backing toward the walk-in freezer.
“Service entrance to the main house?” I ask.
She points toward a narrow hallway beyond the prep stations. “Through there. But the family?—”
“Don’t worry about the family.” Dmitri moves past her, checking corners. “Worry about staying quiet.”
I trigger the detonator.
The explosion rocks the entire estate, rattling pots hanging from overhead racks. Through the kitchen windows, orange light flickers against the glass—our truck burning bright in the loading bay. Shouts multiply outside as guards rush toward the flames.
“That bought us maybe ten minutes,” Alexi says, pulling up building schematics on his phone. “Katarina’s room should be second floor, east wing.”
The service hallway stretches ahead of us, lined with storage closets and utility panels. Bare bulbs cast harsh shadows, and our footsteps echo off tile floors despite our efforts to move quietly.
“Staff quarters,” Nikolai identifies, checking doors as we pass. Empty rooms, unmade beds, personal belongings scattered on nightstands. “We’re in the wrong section.”
I push forward, tension coiling in my chest. Every second brings Igor closer to discovering our breach. The main house entrance appears ahead—a heavy wooden door marked with warnings about unauthorized entry.
Alexi presses his ear to the wood. “Voices. At least three people, maybe four.”
“Guards?” Dmitri asks.
“Hard to tell. Could be household staff.” He tests the handle carefully. “Locked, but not deadbolted.”
Through the door, I can hear rapid footsteps on marble floors. Someone barks orders to check all entrances and secure the perimeter. Igor’s voice cuts through the chaos, demanding status reports from every guard station.
“They know we’re here,” I mutter. “Full alert.”
“On three,” Nikolai orders.
On three, we burst through the door.
The ornate foyer spreads before us—polished marble floors, crystal chandeliers, oil paintings worth more than most people’s houses. Four figures scatter like startled birds: an elderly woman clutching a feather duster, two maids in black uniforms, and a butler frozen mid-stride with a silver tray.
Not guards. Staff.
“Down on the floor,” Dmitri commands, his weapon sweeping across the group. “Hands where we can see them.”
The butler drops his tray with a crash that echoes through the high-ceilinged space. Silver spoons scatter across the marble, ringing like broken bells. The elderly woman whimpers, pressing herself against an antique side table.
“Please,” the butler stammers in heavily accented English. “We know nothing. We see nothing.”
“Smart man.” Alexi keeps his gun trained on the group as they sink to their knees. “Stay exactly like that until we’re gone.”
One of the maids—young, maybe twenty—starts crying softly. She lowers herself to the floor, hands shaking against the cold marble.
“Which way to the family quarters?” I demand.
The butler’s eyes dart toward a grand staircase curving up to the second floor. “Main stairs, sir. But please?—”
“Shut up.” I motion to Nikolai. “We go up. Alexi, Dmitri—keep them quiet.”
“Copy that.” Dmitri positions himself where he can watch both the staff and the main entrance. “You’ve got maybe eight minutes before this place swarms with backup.”
Nikolai and I move toward the staircase, boots silent on the carpet runner. Behind us, Alexi settles into an overwatch position, laptop balanced on a mahogany console as his fingers dance across the keys.
“Internal comms are lighting up,” he reports quietly. “Igor’s on the second floor, coordinating response. Guard rotations pulling back from exterior patrol.”
The stairs stretch ahead of us, each step carrying us closer to Katarina. My pulse hammers against my collar as we climb, weapon ready, every nerve firing with combat adrenaline.
“East wing,” Nikolai murmurs, checking his phone for the floor plan. “Three doors down from the main hallway.”
We reach the landing. The second floor spreads before us—a carpeted corridor lined with portraits and expensive furniture. Voices carry from somewhere deeper in the house, Igor’s commands mixing with radio chatter.
“Move,” I breathe.
We surge forward into the hallway, leaving the terrified staff behind us.
The hallway stretches before us, a corridor of polished wood and expensive art. My boots sink into the thick carpet as we move toward the east wing, every shadow a potential threat.
Voices echo from around the corner ahead—Igor’s gravelly Russian. Multiple footsteps on marble, getting closer.
“Back,” Nikolai hisses.
We duck into an alcove lined with Chinese vases, pressing ourselves against the curved walls. The space barely contains both of us, my shoulder jammed against Nikolai’s as boots pound past our hiding spot.
“—sweep every room again,” Igor barks, his voice carrying the edge of barely controlled fury. “They’re inside the house. I want them found.”
“Sir, the east wing is secure,” a guard reports. “Double locks on all family quarters, additional patrol stationed?—”
“Not enough.” Igor’s footsteps pause directly outside our alcove. “Triple the guard rotation. No one moves through this house without my knowledge.”
I hold my breath, my finger resting on my weapon’s trigger. Through the narrow gap between vases, I catch a glimpse of Igor’s profile—weathered features twisted with rage, silver hair catching the hallway lights. Four guards flank him, assault rifles visible beneath their suit jackets.
“What about the girl?” another voice asks.
“She stays locked down until this is resolved.” Igor’s tone turns predatory. “The Petrov family will be here tomorrow morning. This little interruption can’t delay proceedings.”
My jaw clenches.
The group moves past us, voices fading as they head toward the main staircase. I count to thirty before emerging from our hiding spot, muscles tense with suppressed violence.
“Clear,” Nikolai confirms, checking both directions.
We continue down the hallway, passing door after door until we reach the east wing. The corridor narrows here, more intimate, lined with family photographs and personal touches that feel distinctly different from the formal reception areas below.
“Third door,” Nikolai whispers, consulting his phone. “Should be?—”
“There.” I spot the door at the end of the hallway, heavy wood with a brass nameplate I can’t read from this distance. But something in my chest recognizes it instantly. She’s behind that door.
“I’ll keep watch,” Nikolai says, positioning himself where he can monitor both ends of the corridor. “You’ve got maybe five minutes before the next patrol sweep.”
I approach the door, my heart hammering against my ribs.
What will she think when she sees me? Does she want to be rescued, or have I convinced myself she needs saving when she doesn’t want me at all?
Does she love me?