Chapter 43 Cyrus
CYRUS
We get her back.
Those four words replay in my mind like a battle drum as Ace and I break apart.
“I know where Kozlov stays,” I say, already moving toward the door. “The Blackwood brothers keep tabs on him. We go now. Hit them before they expect us.”
Ace catches my arm. “Stop. Think.”
“Forty-eight hours,” I snarl. “They’re giving us two days to panic while they—” My voice cracks. I can’t finish the thought. Can’t give words to what might be happening to Keira.
“They won’t hurt her yet,” Ace says, his voice steadier now. “She’s leverage. Undamaged merchandise is more valuable.”
I wrench my arm free. “Merchandise? This is Keira!”
“You know what I mean.” His eyes harden. “We need twelve hours. Maximum.”
“Twelve hours she spends terrified, drugged—”
“Twelve hours to ensure we get her out alive.” Ace reaches for his phone. “We call Xavier. Mobilize Blackwood resources. Track Volkov’s call. Map entry points. We need surveillance, building schematics, and guard rotations.”
I pace the studio. Every instinct screams at me to move, to kill, to burn everything until I find her.
“Every second we waste planning, she’s—”
“Dead if we go in blind,” Ace cuts me off. “You want to save her or avenge her?”
The question hits like a physical blow. I freeze mid-step.
“Call Xavier,” I concede through gritted teeth. “I’ll contact Felix. Have him help.”
Ace nods, already dialing. “Get locations on Kozlov’s known properties. We’ll cross-reference with the cell signal.”
“Twelve hours,” I repeat, the phrase both promise and threat. “Not a minute more.”
“Twelve hours,” Ace agrees, as Xavier answers. “Then we bring her home.”
Eleven hours and twenty-seven minutes. That’s how long it takes Felix to call us back with the location. Every minute feels like torture—like someone carving away pieces of my soul with a dull blade.
“I’ve confirmed Volkov’s position,” Felix says through the speaker. His voice is clipped, professional. “They’re holding her at the Northside Steel complex in the industrial district. Abandoned warehouse, building six.”
Ace leans over the phone, his knuckles white against the countertop. “Security?”
“Heavy. I count fourteen armed guards on perimeter rotation. Another eight inside, based on thermal imaging. Military-grade weapons. Multiple entry points, all watched. They’ve got motion sensors covering the blind spots.”
My chest tightens. “Keira?”
A pause. “Confirmed alive. Second floor, northwest corner. Two guards with her always.”
“Chances?” Ace asks.
“With just the two of you?” Felix doesn’t bother hiding his concern. “It’s a suicide mission. Even with your skills. You’d need a small army to breach that perimeter without taking casualties.”
I look up, meeting Ace’s eyes across the table. Something passes between us—something ancient and terrible. The same silent vow we made at fifteen, standing over the cooling corpse of Handler Seventeen.
“Then we make it a massacre,” I say flatly.
No emotion colors my voice. This isn’t rage anymore. This is a cold and focused intent. The killing calm I was trained to find.
Ace nods once. “We’ll need the surveillance truck for this.”
“I’ll have it ready in thirty,” Felix confirms. “But you should know—”
“Thank you, Felix,” Ace interrupts, ending the call.
The drive back to the penthouse passes in silence. Ace’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel while my leg bounces with barely contained energy. The blood rushing in my ears sounds like screaming—like Keira screaming. I shake the thought away.
We take the private elevator straight to the top floor. The moment the doors open, we’re moving like two parts of one lethal machine.
“Weapons first,” Ace says, heading toward our armory.
I follow, my body humming with a feral energy that needs release. “I want the Russian combat knives. The serrated ones.”
“Take them. And the Glock 19s. Silencers.” Ace pulls tactical vests from a cabinet and lays them on the center table. “Ceramic plates. Flash grenades. Smoke.”
My hands move automatically, checking magazines, loading ammunition.
“Comms,” Ace continues, tossing me an earpiece. “Felix is monitoring their frequencies. We’ll know if they move her.”
I catch the device one-handed. “I’ll take point on the entry. You handle the security systems.”
Our phones buzz simultaneously. Xavier’s name appears on both screens.
Ace answers, putting it on speaker. “Sir.”
“My office in thirty minutes,” Xavier’s voice is steel. “I’ve assembled a team. Six men. Best I have. Felix called me,” Xavier continues, as if reading our thoughts. “He works for me, gentlemen. Always has.”
The realization hits me—Felix has been Xavier’s eyes and ears all along. Monitoring us while providing support. We should have known that, considering the Blackwood Brothers run this city.
“The team will follow your lead,” Xavier says. “No questions asked. Kozlov crossed a line. This response needs to be... definitive.”
“Thank you,” I say, the words strange in my mouth. Gratitude isn’t something I often feel toward our employer.
“Thirty minutes,” Xavier repeats before hanging up.
Ace tucks another knife into his boot. “Six more guns. Six more bodies between them and her.”
I nod. “It won’t be enough for what they’ve done.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s a start.”
I snap the final holster in place and reach for the tactical vest. The weight of it is familiar—a second skin we’ve worn too many times to count. Across the room, Ace methodically checks his own equipment, his movements precise despite the rage I can feel radiating from him.
“Twenty-two minutes,” he says without looking at his watch. Ace always knows the time, down to the second. It’s one of his things.
I grunt in response, struggling with the side straps of my vest. The Kevlar feels heavier tonight, like it’s filled with all my fears for Keira instead of ballistic plates.
Ace glances over, notices my fumbling fingers. Without a word, he crosses to me, his boots silent on the hardwood. He bats my hands away and takes over, adjusting the straps.
“Too tight and you can’t breathe. Too loose and—”
“And it’s useless,” I finish. “I know.”
He checks each fastening point. When he reaches the front panel, his hands flatten against my chest, pressing to ensure the plates sit properly. But they linger there longer than necessary.
I look up and find his eyes, mirrors of my own, locked on his hands against my chest. Something unspoken passes between us, heavy with all the things we’ve never said. All the boundaries we’ve maintained.
“Be safe, brother,” he says quietly.
The word brother hangs between us, loaded with meaning beyond blood, beyond the shared womb that created us. It’s everything we are to each other. Everything we’ve survived together.
“Get her back safe,” I reply.
His hands press slightly firmer against my chest. “Both,” he says, the single word containing a universe of meaning.
I cover his hands with mine for just a moment, a silent agreement, before we step apart and return to our preparations.