Chapter Ten
Hogan’s rifle stayed leveled, finger steady on the trigger, chest burning with fury as he watched Kai pinned against a broad chest, the blade of a combat knife glinting under the floodlights and pressed hard into his throat.
The man holding him was thick-necked, close-shaven, eyes cold and flat.
Soot streaked his cheeks where sweat had carved lines through grime.
His accent was rough, his English halting, but the threat came through clear enough.
“You drop gun,” the Russian barked, dragging Kai back another half step, knife tightening until a bead of crimson welled along his skin. “Or I cut. I cut slow. You watch.”
Hogan’s lip curled, rage boiling under his calm exterior. “You don’t want to do that.” His tone was even, but his heart was a drumbeat against his ribs.
The man sneered, eyes darting between Hogan’s rifle and Kai’s steady face. “I kill him. I make you scream. Then I kill you. Both gone.”
Kai didn’t flinch. His dark eyes stayed locked on Hogan’s, silent, steady—an anchor in the storm. Hogan saw the flicker there—trust. Trust in him. But the sight of blood sliding down Kai’s neck tore at Hogan’s chest like shrapnel.
“Stand down.” Bateman’s voice carried from behind, clipped and calm but heavy with command. “Let him go. We’ll regroup. We’ll get him back another way.”
Hogan barked out a bitter laugh, eyes never leaving the captor. “Stand down? Not happening. You think I’m gonna stand here while he’s dragged off? Not a fucking chance.” His finger flexed along the trigger guard, breath slow and sharp.
The Russian pressed the blade deeper, voice thick, English fractured. “You no hero. You step, he die now. You ... you lose.”
Hogan leaned a fraction forward, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached.
He dropped his voice, low and lethal, the kind of tone that scraped bone.
“Touch him again and I’ll take you apart piece by piece—start with your hands, then your tongue, then whatever’s left until you beg me to finish it.
That’s not a threat. That’s your future if you don’t let him go. ”
The air grew heavier. Around them the mansion was still a war zone—sporadic bursts of gunfire, the echo of Dev barking orders, Torch’s manic laughter and explosions filtering faintly through the comms. Sweat slicked Hogan’s palms, running down his spine.
He could feel the eyes of his team on him—Bateman’s steel, Ricky’s nervous readiness, Surge somewhere on the comm line, silent but present.
They were waiting for him to make the call.
Bateman tried again, quieter now, a warning edge under the calm. “Think this through. Don’t force it. It’s not worth him getting killed now when we can get him back, Hogan.”
Hogan snapped back, voice rising. “No. Not again. I’ve lost enough time with that man. Not a second more. You want to pull rank on me? Do it. But I will not stand down, and right now—he’s mine to protect.”
The Russian shifted, jerking Kai closer like a shield. Kai’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t struggle. Hogan’s chest clenched. He couldn’t shake the image of Kai walking out of that hospital all those years ago, broken-hearted but willing to let Hogan live without him. Not this time. Never again.
“Last chance,” the Russian growled. “Gun down, or he die screaming.”
The standoff stretched like a tripwire ready to snap.
Hogan could hear the roar of his own pulse, could feel time slowing to a knife-edge.
Finally, with a sharp, deliberate motion, Hogan lowered his rifle.
He let it hang, metal clattering softly as it hit the floor.
His scowl cut like a blade itself as he glared at Kai.
“Any fucking time now, Rip.”
The world seemed to freeze. A half-beat, long enough to draw breath. Then Kai’s mouth curved in a wicked, feral grin. In a blur, his hand snapped to his sleeve, drawing a slender concealed knife. He rammed it straight into the Russian’s thigh.
The man roared, grip faltering. Blood gushed as Kai twisted and spun in a deadly arc.
His blade flashed in a brutal figure-eight, slicing across every artery within reach—thigh, groin, armpit, neck.
Crimson sprayed across marble and plaster, hot and shocking.
The Russian choked on his own blood, collapsing to the ground before he even registered he was dead.
“Jesus Christ,” Ricky muttered, wide-eyed, breathless. “He was a blur.”
Kai straightened, chest heaving, his skin streaked with blood that wasn’t his own.
His gaze snapped to Hogan’s. For a moment, silence stretched, the weight of what just happened hanging between them.
Relief, pride, and fury battled in Hogan’s chest. He swallowed hard, gave a curt nod, and forced a smirk. “Show-off.”
Kai wiped his blade on the dead man’s shirt, still grinning. “Took you long enough to give me the go ahead.”
“All right, enough with the flirting,” Bateman cut in gruffly, though the tension in his voice had eased. “Third floor still needs clearing. Move.”
The teams surged forward again. The staircase shook under their boots, dust sifting from the ceiling as they forced their way up.
The third floor was a fortress within a fortress.
Barricades choked the hallways, gun barrels poking out through slats.
The moment the first Pathfinder showed in the doorway, gunfire erupted.
“Contact front!” Dev barked, his voice sharp over the comms. His team returned fire, shots thunderous in the confined space. Splinters rained as rounds shredded plaster.
Hogan pressed shoulder to shoulder with Kai, their rifles barking in tandem.
“Push left!” he shouted. Ricky dropped low, spraying suppressive fire.
Bateman vaulted a fallen chair and drove his boot into a barricade, shoving it wide enough for Oren to lob a flashbang through.
The blast rocked the hall, screams echoing as the defenders reeled.
“Go! Go!” Hogan roared.
They surged through, cutting down dazed Bratya gunmen. The hall stank of cordite, blood, and fear. In the chaos, Luca cried out—a round clipping him across the ribs. He staggered back, crimson soaking his side.
“Owie! Next time, I’ll stay in the van,” Luca hissed, grimacing but forcing himself upright, rifle still in hand.
“Copy that,” Marsh replied over comms, tone dry but laced with concern. “Next time you run my board, I’ll take your place, and I won’t get shot because my Eli would not be happy about that. Until then, keep breathing, genius.”
“Fuck you,” Luca grunted, though a grin tugged at his lips despite the pain.
The fighting pressed on. Every room was another battle, every doorway another kill. Women and children were herded out under Surge’s protection, his voice rough with fury as he barked orders to his men. The Bratya fell, one after another, until the last screams guttered out.
Silence, except for the panting of exhausted men.
“Status,” Bateman demanded.
“All clear,” Dev reported.
“South clear,” Surge confirmed.
Hogan scanned the blood-smeared hall, rifle loose in his grip, then finally exhaled. It was over. All of them piled outside, regrouping by the mangled gate Torch had slammed through.
Then Torch’s voice burst over the comms, eager, manic. “Please tell me we’re clear. Please. Please. Please.”
Surge sighed, a mix of exasperation and inevitability. “Any friendlies left inside?”
“Negative,” Bateman said, firm.
“Fine,” Surge muttered. “Torch, it’s yours.”
“Chaahooo!” Torch’s triumphant cry echoed as his armored truck rumbled across the lawn.
He lobbed grenades through shattered windows, fired rockets into the foundation.
Explosions ripped the mansion apart, flames climbing higher with each detonation.
The heat rolled over them in waves, scorching, relentless.
Torch cackled gleefully, circling the mansion like a predator, tossing charge after charge until the walls gave way.
The teams regrouped outside, dragging the wounded to vehicles. Luca hissed in pain as Marsh patched him with quick hands, swearing he’d never leave his screens again. Ricky clapped him on the shoulder, earning a glare.
They stood together as the mansion collapsed inward, fire clawing at the night sky. Ash drifted on the wind, glowing like dying stars. Sirens still at a distance but definitely drawing closer.
“We should go,” Dev muttered, staring into the inferno.
“Why?” Niko asked, wiping blood from his cheek.
Dev smirked. “Didn’t bring any marshmallows.”
The line cracked the tension, weary laughter bubbling up around the group. Engines revved, headlights cut through the smoke, and they rolled out together—leaving the Bratya’s stronghold burning to the ground, a pyre marking both victory and the promise of more battles to come.
****
The warehouse had never felt so alive. Even with the blood and smoke still clinging to their clothes, the place pulsed with a strange kind of energy—part relief, part triumph, part exhaustion.
Weapons were stacked along walls, wounded patched and re-patched, men slumped into chairs with beers or coffee.
Torch was still buzzing, recounting every explosion with sound effects and wild gestures.
The air stank of antiseptic, sweat, and victory.
Hogan hadn’t let Kai drift more than an arm’s length from him all night.
Not once. Every time Kai moved, Hogan’s hand brushed his back, his arm, his shoulder.
If Kai leaned against a wall, Hogan leaned beside him.
If he sat, Hogan dragged a chair close enough their knees touched.
At the warehouse, when the others celebrated, it must have looked obvious—Hogan shadowing Kai like his own damn reflection.
Some of the guys grinned about it, but nobody said a word. Maybe they all understood why.