TWENTY-FIVE Killian
TWENTY-FIVE
Killian
We arrive at Fedorov’s property with no backup, no plan B, and no intention of leaving without Jhene.
The estate rises out of the darkness like an impenetrable fortress, and we’re here to tear it down.
The place is huge, sprawling far and wide, with high stone walls and security cameras mounted at every corner. Searchlights sweep through the dark at regular intervals, always on the lookout for intruders… or prey.
The house itself is made up of limestone, cold and gray and utilitarian.
One look at the place and I can tell men have disappeared here and nobody’s asked questions.
Lochlan crouches on my left, his gaze narrowed and focused on the perimeter. He wasn’t part of the original plan—there was no real plan—but he showed up once he found out what me and Aleksei were up to.
I owe him for this. For having my back even as his allegiance to the clan’s been rocky at best in recent times.
Aleksei’s on my other side. He’s studying the property in a way that’s different from us, searching for specific details. He spent years as Fedorov’s soldier, walking these grounds, probably learning every entrance, exit, and blind spot in the security.
If anybody can get us inside, it’s him.
I should be in a ring at Madison Square Garden right now. Instead, I’m about to break into a Russian crime lord’s estate with nothing but my fists and two men crazy enough to follow me.
Some would call this a suicide mission. I call it the only option I’ve got.
I can’t go on with life knowing Jhene’s held prisoner. That she’s still in Fedorov’s clutches when she should be a free woman. She deserves that much, no matter what she’s done.
“There,” Aleksei mutters. He inclines his head toward a drainage grate set into the base of the wall. “Service entrance. It leads to the utility rooms under the main house. The guards rarely patrol it because they believe no one knows it exists.”
“You sure it’s still accessible?” Lochlan asks.
“I am sure of nothing,” the ex-Bratva soldier answers in his thick, slow accent. “But it is our best chance.”
Good enough for me.
“Alright,” I say. “The goal’s going sight unseen. Keep things stealth unless our hand’s forced.”
We give it another second, then we flit toward the wall, moving quickly and quietly and keeping low to the ground.
All I can think about is Jhene, somewhere inside these walls, waiting for a rescue she probably believes won’t come.
But it will come.
I’ll tear this whole fucking place apart brick by brick if I have to.
As we approach the grate, I catch movement in my peripheral vision.
A figure, barely visible in the shadows along the east side of the estate. Tall and lean, dressed in all black, with long dark hair that shines in the moonlight.
Could it be The Deathless? Would the fucker be tailing us as we breech his boss’s property?
My hand gravitates to the gun at my hip, readying myself to go back on my word.
So much for keeping things low key. Going sight unseen.
…but then it occurs to me the figure’s headed in the opposite direction as we are. If it were the Russian assassin, why would he be moving away from us rather than toward us?
There’s no time to focus on finding answers to these questions, though.
Not in the middle of a rescue mission, right as we’re breeching the property.
I follow the other two the rest of the way toward the drainage grate. Aleksei pries it open with a grunt of effort, revealing a dank, dark passage that smells about as appetizing as any sewer in the city.
“Stay close,” he mutters. “And try not to die.”
“Inspiring words,” I say, dropping into the darkness after him.
Lochlan follows, pulling the grate shut behind us, darkness engulfing us from all angles.
We’ve officially crossed over onto the property.
Now we just have to find Jhene and make it out alive…
We move single file down the cramped passage, Aleksei in the lead and Lochlan at the rear. The only light comes from the small flashlight Aleksei’s brought along, a narrow beam piercing the darkness.
Nobody speaks. There’s nothing to say.
After what feels like a lifetime, the passage opens into a utility room cluttered with pipes and electrical panels and the low hum of machinery.
Aleksei kills the flashlight and holds up a fist, signaling us to stop.
“Main house is through that door,” he says, nodding toward a heavy steel door on the far side of the room. “From here, if we encounter anybody, we take them out before they can raise an alarm.”
“And if they do raise an alarm?” Lochlan presses.
Aleksei’s expression is grim. “Then we fight our way through.”
I check my gun, clicking open the chamber to make sure it’s full. “No more chitchatting. Let’s get this done.”
We head through the steel door and wind up in a narrow corridor with walls lined with pipes. The temperature rises here, humidity clinging to the air.
The farther down the hall we make it, the clearer the sounds of voices become.
Fedorov’s soldiers. What else could it be?
Aleksei leads us up a flight of stairs, pausing every few steps to make sure nobody’s headed down before pressing on.
We’ve almost made it to the top when that possibility’s crushed.
The door swings open ahead of us and a guard steps out, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a phone in his hand.
He freezes as he sees us, eyes going wide.
Aleksei’s on him before he can make a sound. His fist connects with his jaw and sends the cigarette flying.
The guard stumbles sideways, fumbling for the radio at his belt, but I rush up and grab him by the throat and slam him into the wall. The impact knocks the breath out of him, and before he can recover, I wrap my arm around his neck and squeeze ’til his body goes limp.
I lower him to the ground, pulse pounding in my ears.
“One down,” I grunt.
Aleksei nods, then turns to keep moving up the last few steps.
We make it through the door into another corridor, this one plainer but obviously part of the main house. The walls are an off white and the floor’s sleek and made up of dark wood.
We encounter the second guard as we leave the corridor behind and enter some type of large atrium.
He’s standing nearby, more alert and decisive than the first guard. He shouts in Russian and reaches for his gun.
Lochlan throws himself at him. The two men tumble to the ground, locked in a scuffle. The guard manages to get his finger around the trigger and pull. But it’s only half a second before Lochlan manages to drive a knife into the man’s throat.
The damage has been done. The bullet’s gone astray, but the loud, resounding bang echoes through the hall. It must spread to other parts of the house.
An alarm goes off, a red light high up toward the ceiling flashing.
The next thing we know, the corridor’s being flooded with Fedorov’s men.
“So much for stealth,” Aleksei growls, pulling his gun.
“Plan B it is,” I say, doing the same.
They come from the opposite end of the atrium, a flood of black-clad guards ready to handle whatever threat has emerged.
There’s no time to think or strategize.
We’re in the thick of the fight we were trying to avoid.
I fire twice and drop the first soldier as he levels his weapon.
Lochlan takes out another with a shot to the head then ducks behind a pillar as bullets chew up the wall beside him.
Aleksei is a force of nature, his massive frame absorbing a blow from one enforcer.
He follows up by snapping the man’s neck with his bare hands.
But more keep coming. Too many for three men.
Soon we’ve each taken cover behind the pillars in the atrium, using them to shield ourselves.
I lose track of how many I hit and the ones I miss. The world narrows to muzzle flashes and the kick of the gun in my hand and the spray of blood when a bullet finds its mark.
…including the bullet that grazes my right shoulder.
I release a roar, stepping back behind the pillar. My left hand lifts up to touch the wound and comes away with fresh blood.
It’s only a graze. I’ve suffered much worse. But it’s also a sign the odds are stacked against us. There’s no escaping a situation like this when we’re outnumbered ten to one.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch another glimpse of him.
The figure from outside Fedorov’s estate. Except now the shadows aren’t masking him. He’s taller and leaner than I first realized, dressed in black.
He’s watching from behind a pillar on the far side of the atrium, practically invisible with the attention solely on us. Long dark hair frames a face I can’t make out.
But I slowly realize it’s not The Deathless like I initially assumed. This is somebody else, hanging back and watching with tattoos and almond-shaped eyes.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s here on a stealth mission too.
A guard barrels into me, knocking me into the wall. I bring my elbow down on the back of his skull and he drops. Two more take his place, and I’m left playing defense as they attack from either side.
It’s no use. There’s no fighting our way through this when we’re already overrun. Our best chance was to fucking stay unseen, but the second our cover was blown, it was over.
We’re surrounded, guns in our faces. We’ve got nowhere to run and no chance of fighting our way out.
My chest is heaving, my shoulder is bleeding, and there’s a circle of at least a dozen guards with their weapons trained on the three of us.
We gave it everything we had, but it still wasn’t enough.
The guards part like a sea, straight down the middle.
Fedorov Raguzin walks through, a pompous king surveying his domain.
The Bratva’s sovietnik is tall and imposing despite his age, silver hair slicked back and golden cane at his side. His cold eyes survey us, expression flat and unsurprised.
He’s been expecting us.
I grit my teeth and glare back at him, heaving air into my lungs, droplets of blood dripping from the graze on my shoulder.
I want to rip his throat out with my bare hands.
“Ah yes,” he says loftily. “The boxer and his friends, the dead man and the traitor. I have heard so much about you.”