Chapter Eleven
~ Mishka ~
I couldn't breathe as I watched them drag Nicolai's unconscious body across the restaurant floor, his massive frame limp as a discarded doll. The security monitors cast a cold blue glow across my face, illuminating the nightmare unfolding before me.
This was my fault, all of it. I'd brought O'Rourke's men here, and now the man who'd protected me was paying the price.
"No, no, no," I whispered, my fingers pressed against the screen as if I could somehow reach through it and pull Nicolai back.
On the largest monitor, the one centered on the restaurant's main floor, Denton and his men hauled Nicolai toward the exit, leaving behind a trail of destruction.
The elegant dining room I'd come to know over these past few weeks was now unrecognizable—overturned tables, shattered crystal, the polished wooden floor slick with spilled drinks and blood.
My legs gave out and I sank to the floor, my back sliding down the cold concrete wall of the panic room. My breath came in short, painful gasps. The walls of this supposedly safe haven seemed to be closing in on me.
I'd spent months running from O'Rourke, only to end up trapped while watching the one person who'd offered me protection being taken away.
I slammed my fist against the floor, the sharp pain snapping me back to reality. "Get it together," I muttered to myself, forcing my breathing to slow. "Think."
Nicolai's words echoed in my head: "No matter what happens, no matter what you see on these monitors, you do not come out until I or Yuri come for you."
I glanced at the steel door, two feet thick and designed to withstand explosives. I was safe in here, just as Nicolai had intended. But Nicolai wasn't safe. And from what I could see on the monitors, neither was anyone else who worked for him.
I pushed myself to my feet, wiping away tears I hadn't realized I'd shed. Standing in the center of the room, I forced myself to take inventory of my surroundings with methodical precision.
The panic room was larger than I'd initially thought, maybe fifteen feet square. The walls were bare concrete, painted a utilitarian gray.
The main feature was the bank of monitors covering one wall, displaying feeds from what had to be dozens of cameras throughout the building. Beneath them sat a sophisticated control panel with multiple keyboards, switches, and a communications terminal.
To my right stood a weapons locker, secured with what looked like a biometric lock. Next to it, shelves stocked with supplies: water bottles, non-perishable food, first aid kits, blankets, flashlights, and what appeared to be several satellite phones.
A small cot was positioned against the far wall, with a footlocker beside it. The room even had its own bathroom—just a toilet and sink behind a partial wall, but it meant this space was designed for potentially long-term occupation.
I approached the control terminal, running my fingers lightly over the keyboards. This was technology—my domain. If there was any way I could help from in here, this would be it.
I sat down in the ergonomic chair facing the monitors and surveyed the screens. Each was labeled with its location in the building: "Main Dining," "Kitchen," "Bar," "Office Level 1," "Office Level 2," and so on.
One monitor displayed the exterior of the building, showing a black van with its back doors open. I watched as they loaded Nicolai inside, his body handled roughly like cargo rather than a person.
Something twisted painfully in my chest at the sight. In just weeks, this man had become important to me in ways I was only beginning to understand.
The cameras tracked the van as it pulled away from the curb, disappearing down the street. But Denton wasn't in it—he and several of his men remained inside the building, systematically making their way through the restaurant.
"They're still looking for me," I whispered, the realization sending a chill down my spine.
I watched as they split into teams, methodically checking each room, overturning furniture, and tearing apart anything that might conceal a hiding place. They were thorough and organized, not the usual muscle O'Rourke employed.
This was a professional operation.
On another screen, I spotted several of Nicolai's men—the ones who had survived the attack—being zip-tied and questioned.
One was bleeding profusely from a head wound, yet still defiant, spitting blood at his captor's feet. The fake officer responded by slamming the butt of his gun into the man's temple, dropping him to the floor.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitant. I'd spent my life running, hiding, using my abilities only when absolutely necessary to escape detection. But watching these men tear apart Nicolai's domain while he was helpless, something shifted inside me.
The familiar fear was still there, churning in my stomach, but alongside it burned something new—rage. White-hot and clarifying.
I started typing, testing the system's responsiveness. The computer came to life instantly, requesting a password. I hesitated only a moment before placing my palm flat against the side of the terminal, closing my eyes, and focusing.
My ability to manipulate electronics had always been both a blessing and a curse. O'Rourke wanted to weaponize it. Nicolai had simply accepted it as part of me. And now, I would use it to fight back.
I felt the familiar tingle as my consciousness extended into the system, sensing the flow of electricity, the patterns of data. The password prompt disappeared, replaced by a comprehensive security interface.
Building schematics appeared on one of the screens—detailed floor plans of every level. Another screen displayed the security protocols—lockdown procedures, emergency systems, communication channels. A third showed access codes for every secure area in the building.
I leaned forward, studying the movement of the intruders. They had finished searching the main level and were now making their way upstairs—toward Nicolai's private quarters where they expected to find me.
One of the screens showed Denton speaking into a radio, his expression grim. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but his body language told me enough—he was reporting failure. They hadn't found me yet, and judging by the way he slammed his fist against the wall, O'Rourke wasn't happy.
Good. Let him be unhappy. Let him wonder where I was.
Because I wasn't running anymore.
Every instinct I'd developed over years on the run told me to stay put, to wait until they gave up and left. But something deeper, something I couldn't explain, told me that if Nicolai was taken away, he would die.
And something about that possibility made my chest constrict with a pain I'd never experienced before.
"They think they're the hunters," I murmured, fingers flying across the keyboard as I familiarized myself with the security systems. "Let's see how they feel about being the hunted."
I mapped out their positions throughout the building, counting at least eight men still searching.
Denton was directing operations from the main floor, sending teams room by room.
They hadn't found the panic room entrance yet, but it was only a matter of time before they started looking for hidden passages.
My resolve hardened as I watched them ransack Nicolai's personal quarters, tossing his belongings aside with casual disregard.
This place had been a sanctuary for me, the first time in years I'd felt something close to safe.
And these men were violating it, just as they'd violated the man who'd offered me protection.
"I'm not letting them take you," I whispered, as if Nicolai could somehow hear me. The promise felt heavy on my lips, important in ways I couldn't fully articulate. Everything in me rebelled against the idea of him being at O'Rourke's mercy.
I looked again at the weapons locker, then back at the monitors. I wasn't a fighter—not like Nicolai or his men. But I had other skills. Skills O'Rourke wanted badly enough to stage this entire operation.
Maybe it was time to show them exactly why he wanted those skills so desperately.
I cracked my knuckles and turned back to the terminal, a plan forming in my mind. I would have laughed at the irony if the situation weren't so dire—the very ability that had forced me into hiding was now the only weapon I had to save the man who'd protected me.
I frantically cycled through the camera feeds, searching for anyone still fighting back. My heart sank with each screen—unconscious bodies of Nicolai's men sprawled across floors, others bound and bloodied.
Then I saw him—Yuri—cornered in the kitchen by three of O'Rourke's thugs.
Blood streamed from a gash across his forehead, staining his usually impeccable suit.
He stood with his back against the industrial refrigerator, a carving knife clutched in his hand, his eyes darting between his attackers as they closed in.
"Shit, shit, shit," I muttered, enlarging the kitchen feed.
Yuri might have been Nicolai's right hand, but he was still outnumbered and injured. One of the fake officers jabbed at him with a stun baton—the same type of weapon they'd used on Nicolai. Yuri barely dodged it, his movements slower than they should have been.
I'd never particularly liked Yuri. He'd made it clear from day one that he considered me a security risk, a vulnerability in Nicolai's otherwise impenetrable defenses.
But watching him fight to protect his boss's territory, refusing to surrender even when the odds were stacked against him, I couldn't help but admire his loyalty.
And right now, he was the only one left who might be able to help Nicolai.
I turned back to the terminal, fingers flying over the keyboard as I explored the extent of the security system. Password-protected directories unfolded before me as I pushed my abilities into the computer, feeling for the electrical pathways, the digital architecture.