72. Chapter 72
72
Konstantin
Two hours earlier
“ T hey’ve taken the bait,” I say, watching the satellite feed of Tatiana’s men swarming the main entrance of Eagle Point. “They think we’re coming in from the front.”
Timur frowns, studying the tactical display. “But how do we get in? They’ve disabled the security protocols, changed all the access codes.”
I allow myself a thin smile. “Not all of them.”
The helicopter banks sharply to the left, circling wide around the mountain ridge. Below us, the sheer cliff face of Eagle Point’s eastern side comes into view—untouched, pristine, with no visible access points. Exactly as designed.
“Where are we landing?” Arseny asks, checking his weapon for the third time. “There’s no helipad on this side.”
“There is,” I reply, nodding to the pilot. “Just not on any blueprint you’ve seen.”
The pilot adjusts our trajectory, bringing us toward what appears to be a solid rock outcropping. As we draw closer, the camouflaged netting becomes visible—subtle, nearly impossible to spot unless you know exactly what you’re looking for. Beneath it, a small landing pad, just large enough for a single helicopter.
“Clever bastard,” Arseny mutters, a hint of admiration in his voice. “When did you build this?”
“When I built Eagle Point.” I check the action on my Glock, the familiar weight grounding me. “Always have a backup plan.”
The helicopter settles onto the pad. No lights, no guidance systems—nothing that would announce our presence. The moment we touch down, I’m moving, ducking under the still-rotating blades and heading toward what looks like solid rock.
“Three meters from the edge, two panels in,” I direct Timur, who runs his hands along the cliff face until he finds the nearly invisible seam. A panel slides aside, revealing a biometric scanner.
“Backup protocol,” I explain, pressing my palm to the scanner. “Only two people’s prints open this door. Mine and my father’s.”
Timur and Arseny exchange a quick look. I see it—the flicker of respect. The realization that their Pakhan was ten steps ahead, even when they thought he was just being paranoid.
Paranoia keeps us alive.
The rock face slides open silently, revealing a narrow passage cut directly into the mountain. Emergency lights flicker on as we enter, casting long shadows down the corridor.
“Weapons ready,” I say quietly, drawing my Glock. “We’re entering blind.”
The passage descends steeply, twisting deeper into the mountain. After three hundred meters, it terminates at another biometric lock—this one requiring both handprint and retinal scan.
“Where does this lead?” Timur asks as the scanner maps my retina.
“Directly into the command center,” I reply. “If they’ve taken the facility, this will put us behind them.”
The door slides open, revealing the familiar console bank of Eagle Point’s nerve center. The room is empty—the guards Tatiana brought in focused elsewhere, hunting through the more obvious sections of the facility.
Timur immediately moves to the security station, fingers flying over the keyboard.
“I can access some of the camera feeds,” he says after a moment. “They haven’t disabled everything—just rerouted control.”
The monitors flicker to life, showing fragmented views of the facility. My gut tightens as I scan each feed, looking for my family. Looking for Bella.
“There,” Arseny says, pointing to one of the monitors. “The panic room corridor.”
Armed men stand guard outside the reinforced door, their posture suggesting they’re waiting for something—or someone.
“Can you get audio?” I ask Timur.
He shakes his head. “The panic room’s systems are isolated. We’d need to be closer.”
I check the tactical display, mapping the shortest route from our position to the panic room.
“Two options,” I say. “Direct approach through the main corridor—fastest but most exposed. Or maintenance tunnels—slower but lower risk of detection.”
“Split up,” Arseny suggests. “Three-point assault. Maximum confusion.”
I nod, decision made. “Arseny, take Petrov and Kuznetsov. Approach from the east corridor. Timur, you’re with me and Sokolov. We’ll take the maintenance tunnels. The rest of you secure our exit path.”
As we gear up—tactical vests, extra magazines, comms units—Timur pulls up a final camera feed. The image freezes me in place.
Mikhail Volkov, walking through the main entrance of Eagle Point, flanked by his personal security. His presence here changes everything.
“He wasn’t supposed to be involved directly,” Arseny says, voicing my thoughts. “Tatiana’s playing a bigger game.”
“Or a more desperate one,” I reply. “Either way, Mikhail just moved to the top of the target list.”
Timur glances at me. “Orders?”
“Take him alive if possible,” I say, checking the action on my weapon one final time. “I want answers before he dies.”
We move out, splitting into our assigned teams. The maintenance tunnels are narrow, barely lit, designed for utility rather than comfort. We advance in silence, our footsteps muffled by decades of dust.
“Status?” I murmur into my comms unit.
“East corridor secured,” Arseny replies, his voice crackling softly in my earpiece. “Four hostiles neutralized. No casualties on our side.”
“Hold position,” I instruct. “Wait for my signal.”
We emerge from the maintenance tunnel into a service corridor just twenty meters from the panic room. The sounds of voices drift toward us—agitated, angry.
I signal for silence, pressing against the wall as we inch closer. The voices become clearer, more distinct.
“You promised me five million! You said I’d get my money if I helped you get to the children!”
Irina. The venom in her voice makes my blood boil. She didn’t come back for our children—she came back for a payday.
“Have you lost your mind?”
Tatiana, her voice sharp with annoyance.
“I didn’t come back for them. I came back for what’s mine! You think I care about these brats? I want my payment!”
Every word is a knife, twisting deeper. The realization that the mother of my children never loved them—never wanted them—burns like acid. But there’s no time for that pain now. I focus on what matters: getting them out alive.
We reach the junction that opens onto the panic room corridor. From our position, I can see the two guards posted at the door, their attention focused inward, listening to the drama unfolding inside.
I signal to Sokolov— take them.
He moves with the silent efficiency that made him one of my father’s most trusted assassins. Two knives, two throws, two bodies hitting the floor before they can make a sound. We drag them back into the corridor, out of sight.
A gunshot echoes from inside the panic room, followed by screams—children’s screams. My children’s screams.
“Move now,” I command into the comms unit. “All teams execute.”
We burst into the corridor, weapons raised, just as chaos erupts inside the panic room. Through the open door, I catch glimpses of movement—Julian tackling a guard, Elena somehow with a weapon, Bella diving toward the children.
“Bella!” I shout, the name tearing from my throat as I charge forward.
Another gunshot. Then another. Bodies falling.
I enter the panic room at full speed, taking in the scene in fragments—Irina on the floor, blood pooling beneath her. Tatiana standing over her, gun still smoking. My children huddled against the far wall, Bella’s body shielding them.
Tatiana’s head snaps up, her eyes widening as she registers my presence. Her gun swings toward me, but I’m already moving, already firing.
My first shot catches her in the shoulder, spinning her around. Not fatal—I want answers first.
“Konstantin!” My father’s voice, strained but strong.
“Get down!” I shout, diving for cover as Tatiana’s men open fire.
The room erupts into a firefight, bullets ricocheting off reinforced walls. I catch glimpses of Bella herding the children behind the heavy metal desk, of Julian pulling Lila to safety, of Elena—surprisingly—firing back with deadly accuracy.
“Mikhail’s in the east wing,” Arseny’s voice crackles in my ear. “Moving toward the vehicle bay.”
“Cut him off,” I order, dropping a guard with a clean headshot. “Don’t let him leave this mountain.”
Through the commotion, I spot my mother—Yelena, always composed, always controlled—working her hands free from what appear to be zip ties. Her face is a mask of cold fury I’ve rarely seen.
Tatiana is backing toward a side door, clutching her bleeding shoulder, barking orders at her remaining men. Her eyes meet mine across the room, hatred blazing in them.
“This isn’t over, Konstantin,” she spits. “I’m still—”
Whatever she’s still about to claim dies in her throat as a thin wire loops around her neck from behind. Yelena stands behind her, expression unchanged as she pulls the garrote tighter.
“Twenty-five years,” my mother says, her voice eerily calm as Tatiana claws at the wire cutting into her throat. “Twenty-five years I watched you try to destroy my family. It ends now.”
There’s a wet, decisive snap as Yelena twists the wire with surprising strength. Tatiana’s body goes limp, falling to the floor like a discarded doll. My mother stands over her, adjusting her pearl earrings as if she’s just finished arranging flowers.
“Always hated that woman,” she says simply, stepping over the body.
I turn my attention to securing the room, eliminating the remaining threats with mechanical precision. When the last of Tatiana’s men fall, I signal to Arseny.
“Status on Mikhail?”
“Cornered in the vehicle bay,” he replies. “He’s asking to negotiate.”
“On my way,” I say, then turn to assess the situation in the panic room.
Oleg and Viktor are freeing my father from his restraints. Julian and Elena are checking on Lila, who appears shaken but unharmed. And Bella—
“Nikolai, no!” Bella’s voice cuts through the aftermath, sharp with panic.
I turn to see my son breaking away from his siblings, running toward Irina’s fallen form. Blood has spread in a wide pool around her body, but somehow, impossibly, she’s still alive—one hand reaching weakly toward my son.
“Nikolai, please,” she gasps, blood bubbling at her lips. “I didn’t mean—”
Movement catches my eye—one of Tatiana’s wounded men, propped against the wall, raising his weapon with trembling hands. His target: my son.
I fire without hesitation, the bullet piercing his skull before his finger can complete its squeeze on the trigger. The man slumps lifeless against the wall, weapon clattering to the floor.
In the same instant, Bella throws herself between Nikolai and Irina, her body a human shield. She reaches for my son, pulling him back from his wounded mother, her eyes wild with protective fury.
“It’s okay,” she tells him, her voice gentle despite the insanity around them. “It’s okay, Nikolai.”
She turns to me, relief flooding her face as she sees the threat neutralized. Then, without warning, her eyes roll back. Her knees buckle, body swaying.
I cross the room in three strides, catching her as she collapses. Her weight falls against me, her head lolling against my chest. No blood, no wound—just the aftermath of terror, adrenaline, and exhaustion claiming its due.
“Bella,” I say, lowering us both to the floor, cradling her against me. “Bella, stay with me.”
But she’s already gone, unconscious in my arms, her breathing shallow but steady.