34
NAT
"Copy, negative visual in the lobby," Beta crackles in my ear. "Second floor clear up to the stairwell."
"Copy," I say.
The emergency door slams shut behind me. In the public corridor I lose perimeter control; in the stairwell I’ve got angles, a railing, a fire extinguisher, and a single access point. I prefer a bottleneck. My brain runs inventory:
Assets: two remote supports, Anton and Alexei; murmuring in my earpiece and, with luck, tracking floors off the stolen blueprint.
A janitor’s closet to the right; key in the door, light on, cleaning cart, blue bucket, mops, duct tape, zip ties, a box of gloves.
Extinguishers every two flights, glass cases with no alarms, a coiled hose on the landing.
My gun holstered, full mag, safety checked; it calms me just enough.
Priority: Vega, pregnant, absolute priority.
Mikel, poor thing, stiff as a board, cold sweat on his forehead and scared-face on, though he won’t make a sound if you paid him.
Wish it were Luna—sorry for thinking it.
And Alaska. Oh, Alaska. Fast, unpredictable, laser focus in any mess.
And damn, danger looks good on her. If I didn’t have to protect her, this shit would almost be funny; the fear of something happening to her spikes my blood pressure and scrambles my brain.
"Left wall, tight," I whisper, force my voice flat, and chew the inside of my cheek. "Mikel, you with Vega. Alaska, with me. Close. Real close."
Alaska looks at me and my back tightens; adrenaline roars in my ears.
At the same time, my chest clamps—only she hits that switch.
I breathe through my nose, count to three, and move glued to the wall.
Mikel holds Vega by the elbow; she presses her lips and shoots me a don’t-underestimate-me look.
Anton says something over the radio, a click, static; I nod to no one because no one can see me anyway.
The fluorescent flickers again; the hallway echoes. I draw, test the weight.
Soles scuff below. Another pair above, heavier, pausing on each step. They don’t shuffle, they don’t trip. Not gawkers, not theater staff.
I shove the janitor’s closet door; it gives with a long squeal that puts my hackles up.
Vega goes in. She’s paper white, lips drained, eyes huge.
Mikel plants himself in the doorway, shoulders squared, human barricade.
And Alaska, always a rebel, refuses to go in without me.
Won’t give me an inch. Her arm brushes mine. I feel her heat, her breath on my neck.
And then they appear. One from below, cap pulled down, Cartel El Trueno tattoo on his neck.
Another from above, cheap thin jacket that fits like crap, seams straining, hands visible, veins roped.
A third leans half his body out from the lower landing, braced on the rail, predator eyes.
They came to see us. To measure distance.
To spread out. Coordinated, the assholes.
I bring the gun up. Mode: nobody gets through. High ready, bladed body, elbows firm, thumb on the safety, finger off the trigger. Handle it, Nat. You can—and you look good doing it.
"Easy, brother," I say in my best I’m-from-the-neighborhood-and-I’m-not-scared voice, not yelling, dead serious. "Hands where I can see them, no surprises, and everyone walks their own way."
Cap Guy smiles. Teeth out, eyes locked on my hands, unblinking, savoring it. He’s loving this. Me, I can’t be bothered.
"Relax, mami," he says with a heavy Latin accent. "We’re not here to fight. We just want a word with the Popova sisters."
Heat climbs. Not fear—pissed-off heat. It grates in my ears. They know who the girls are, and I know who they are.
"How the fuck did they know we were at the movies?" I whisper, keeping my sights pinned to the chest of the one below. Breathing controlled, I exhale in measured beats. No tremor. Or that’s the plan.
Silence. One beat. Two. Behind me, Vega’s voice—small, broken.
"I posted a story," she says, barely audible. "With the movie… and the time."
Alaska snaps toward her. When she’s calm she dominates; pissed off, she cuts the air. Eyes blazing, jaw tight, shoulders coiled. It hits me with a messed-up mix of pride, fear, and the urge to ask her to yell at me later, you know. Uh-huh. Great, Nat. A+ priorities.
"Jesus, Vega!" she hisses, knife-thin.
"Enough," I cut in—because this isn’t therapy hour and it’s not the time for me to spiral about how stupidly sexy Alaska is when she’s mad. "We can talk about the genius of social media later. Right now, with me. All of you. Stay sharp."
I come back to the three of them. They occupy the stairs on three levels. They split the space calmly, quietly. The one on the lower landing pulls a folding knife from his pocket. Matte blade, no gleam, worn gray steel, straight tip, back lock. He doesn’t raise it. Just shows it, halfway up.
I tighten my grip. Safety down, breath short. I see the pulse in the neck of the guy in the cap, steady. The one in the jacket glances around, calculating angles. Knife-boy wets his lips and centers his eyes on my gun.
"The talk isn’t happening here," I say. "If your bosses want to talk, they make an appointment and come without toys. No meeting today."
"You don’t get to decide," the one in the cap replies, voice soft, smile spreading for the sheer vice of it. "We’re taking both of you, and they’ll talk to you upstairs."
"Like hell. Last chance: you turn around, you go back the way you came, and I give you the souvenir of not leaving on a stretcher."
Knife-boy makes a tiny shrug. The one above shifts his weight from one leg to the other. I set my feet. I aim at the one moving most. I don’t shake.
"Lower the gun, mami," the guy in the cap says. "No need for this to get ugly."
"It’s already ugly," I answer. "Last warning. One. Two. I won’t get to three." Knife-boy climbs half a step. He’s in a hurry. I click the safety all the way off. The sound is tiny, but we all hear it. The air tightens.
They should fear the gun, yeah. They don’t even blink. Figures. Open space of a shopping mall, stairs down to the lower level, and a camera’s little red light winks at me from the corner.
The damn Tueller drill in my head—at twenty-one feet a knife beats a trigger unless you’re already firing on the first heartbeat. And I’ve got three of them in the frame and a very real fear of a round pinging off metal and changing course. Could hit my own.
Shooting manual: no clear lane, no confirmed target, you don’t take the shot.
And if the cops roll in, the file with my name says Natasha Velikanova, licensed and armed, and I’m already starting three spaces back in this fucking Monopoly—fees paid and apologizing for existing.
I cling to that, to the blanket of procedure, wrap myself in the excuse.
Truth is, something else: I’ve never shot a person.
I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I’ve really got the guts.
Knife-boy—tall, skinny, skin tight over bone, cheap swagger—climbs two more steps.
He doesn’t come straight in; he cuts a diagonal, well-trained, looking for a line.
Line? The only line he needs to worry about today is the one I’m about to cut if he gets one step closer.
I don’t shoot. Not here. Not with Alaska two steps away.
My arm doesn’t shake, no. Something else shakes inside me, but that’s a secret. And it has a woman’s name.
I move. Lateral step, left hand to his wrist, thumb on his radial nerve, gun high, out of his reach.
I turn hips and torso, lock his elbow, kill his momentum.
The blade grazes my blazer, opens the fabric, scratches skin.
It stings. I kick his shin to break his rhythm.
Nothing; he stays latched on. Thick skull.
"The extinguisher!" I bark to Mikel, throat tight with pure mean fury.
Mikel—broad-shouldered and quick—reaches in, yanks the extinguisher out of its bracket, pin to the side, and jams it between the one above and us, blocking the way.
He doesn’t hit, he shoves. The one up top missteps and drops a stair by accident.
The one below miscalculates, stumbles, almost eats it. Embarrassing.
Knife-boy tries to recover and steals a quarter second.
Too late. I slam his wrist into the railing.
It cracks. He gives me a short grunt. I finish with a buttstroke to the temple, clean spot, solid hit.
His fingers open. The knife drops two steps and bounces with a metallic clack.
Half a second. Nothing. Everything still. And I see her.
Alaska.
The blade falls level with her and she snatches it out of the air, ugly grip, palm toward herself, tender fist of someone who’s never trained—but total decision in her eyes.
She doesn’t hesitate. Not one extra heartbeat.
The third one lunges with a long stride to grab her.
She brings her hand forward and lets a horizontal slash fly, no technique but survival instinct.
Opens his forearm. Clean cut. Instant red.
He reels back with a bellow, clutching his arm.
Cap-guy spits on the floor out of cheap pride. They get serious. I speak steady:
"It’s over. You walk out. This time I don’t follow."
I don’t lower the gun. Not a chance. I’m not aiming at heads; I’m not an executioner.
They get it. You can see it in their dumb faces.
No heroes here, just cameras, blood starting to pool on the first step, and the certainty it’s not worth it today.
They back up. One, two, three stairs. The knife guy clamps his hand over the wound, face twisting.
The one above grinds his teeth. Cheap bravado, nothing of value.
"Tell your boss," I add, low and clear, "if they want to ‘talk,’ they use channels. We clear, buddy?"