MAKSIM #2
Two black SUVs. One angled toward the exit road. One broadside near the loading bay. Men moving around the second vehicle. Doors open. Guns out.
And Elena in the middle of them.
Even from this distance, I know her. Bare legs under a twisted robe. Hair dragged half out. Hands tied in front now, probably so they can move her faster. One man has a fist in her arm. Another stands too close behind her with a pistol tucked near her ribs.
My hands tighten on the wheel. “Box the exit,” I say.
Dima answers into the radio before I finish. “Rear car, take right. Concrete team, hold until we hit. Nobody shoots through her.”
I jam the SUV forward, lights off, engine screaming, and hit the yard at speed.
The first man sees us half a second too late.
He turns with his rifle coming up and then my front bumper takes him at the hip and throws him clear into the side of the loading ramp.
I crank the wheel and drive straight at the exit-facing SUV.
Metal slams metal. Their rear end kicks hard and spins.
Doors fly wide. Somebody starts firing. Glass bursts out of my passenger window and Dima answers with a short, controlled burst that drops the shooter across the hood.
I’m out before the engine settles.
The man holding Elena jerks her in front of him and tries to backpedal toward cover. He gets two steps. That is all.
I hit him so hard we both lose our footing.
Elena rips free sideways and goes down on one knee.
He brings the pistol around. I catch his wrist, slam it into the SUV frame until the gun falls, then drive my hand into his throat and keep driving until cartilage gives under my palm.
He drops, choking, and I leave him there.
Another one comes at me from the loading bay with a knife. He gets close enough to slash my sleeve before I catch his forearm, break the elbow backward, and put my forehead through his nose. He folds. I take his own knife and bury it under his jaw in one push.
Shots crack from the far side of the yard.
Ilya and the rear car team hit then, right on time, cutting the exit lane and forcing the remaining men back toward the concrete wall.
One of them tries to run the fence. A scoped rifle drops him before he gets halfway there.
Another dives behind the second SUV and starts firing under the chassis.
Dima moves left, drops to one knee, and sends two rounds through the lower door seam. The firing stops.
“Elena,” I say.
My voice comes out rough, and I hear fear before I can bury it.
She stays on one knee by the rear wheel, breathing hard, face bloodied, eyes locked on me. She saw what I did, and I’ll deal with that later if we both make it back.
A man comes out of the dark behind her and grabs her hair. I know him at once. Moretti’s man, not mine. My mistake. I left her blind side open. He pays for it.
I cross the space before he can drag her upright.
He tries to pull her in front of him. I catch his gun wrist, wrench it up, and fire once into the night.
Then I take his face in my hand and drive the back of his skull into the SUV window until the glass caves.
Once. Twice. Three times. He drops softly at her feet.
Elena flinches against the wheel well.
There’s blood on my hands, my shirt, the side of her robe where I touched her. She looks scared of me for the first time since I met her. Fair enough.
Dima cuts the ties at her wrists and steps back fast.
I crouch in front of her. “Look at me.”
She does.
Her mouth is split. Dirt streaks one cheek. Gravel is ground into one knee, and rage is still holding her up by habit.
“Can you stand?”
“Yes.”
She pushes up and almost goes over. I catch her by the waist before she hits the ground.
Her hands grab my coat. I pull her closer and check her fast. Back of the skull. Throat. Jaw. Ribs. Wrists. Every place a man can damage and lie about it later.
“I’m fine,” she says.
I look at the blood at her mouth. “Get your act together and say that again.”
Anger comes back first. Good. “You look terrible.”
“You should see the other side.” I squeeze her hand.
Around us, my men finish the yard. One last shot near the loading bay. Boots on gravel. Radios. A body dragged clear. Ilya calls the exit secure. Dima says one is alive for questioning.
I don’t care yet. Elena is still gripping my coat, her blood on my shirt and her fingers locked in the fabric. I straighten with one arm around her and turn her away from the bodies, but she has already seen what happens when a man puts hands on her and calls it business.
The convoy sits broken around us, hoods steaming, doors hanging open, blood running through the grit toward the cracked drain.
One man twitches near the fence. Dima fires once and keeps moving.
Elena follows the sound, then looks back at me, pale, shaking, furious, alive.
I keep my hand at her waist because taking it away isn’t an option yet.
“Estate?” she asks.
I look over the yard, the dead men, the wrecked cars, and the road back toward the estate Karpov opened from the inside. The gate let them through, the codes gave them a lane, and that house doesn’t get my trust until I take it apart room by room.
I look down at her. “Not yet.”