31. Erik
ERIK
I grab Katarina's hand and pull her into the hallway. The acrid smell of smoke and explosives hangs heavy in the air. My brothers' voices echo from somewhere below—Alexi's rapid-fire Russian and Dmitri's clipped commands.
“Stay behind me.” I position myself between Katarina and the stairwell, my free hand moving to the pistol at my hip. “Don't let go of my hand.”
She nods, her fingers tightening around mine. Even in silk pajamas and barefoot, she moves with the same focused determination I remember from the compound. No hysteria, no panic—just sharp intelligence assessing our situation.
We reach the main corridor where Nikolai waits, his rifle trained on the approach from the foyer. His steel-gray eyes flick to Katarina, then back to me.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We need to?—”
The sharp crack of automatic gunfire erupts from the lower level, followed by Alexi's voice shouting something I can't make out over the noise. Nikolai's jaw tightens.
“Complications.”
More gunshots ring out, closer this time. The distinctive sound of AK-47s—Igor's men have brought serious firepower. My pulse spikes as I recognize the pattern of shots. Coordinated. Tactical. They're pinning my brothers down.
“Alexi and Dmitri are in trouble.” I'm already moving toward the stairs, Katarina's hand still locked in mine.
“Erik, wait—” Nikolai starts.
“No.” I don't slow down. “We don't leave family behind.”
Katarina keeps pace beside me as we descend, her bare feet silent on the marble steps. The gunfire intensifies below—sharp bursts followed by the heavier thud of return fire. My brothers are holding positions, but they're outnumbered.
“What is the best way out of the estate?” I ask Katarina without breaking stride.
“Through the garage.” Her voice is steady. “But Erik, if we're trapped inside?—”
Another burst of gunfire cuts her off. Glass shatters somewhere in the foyer. Alexi's voice carries up the stairwell, sharp with pain.
My blood turns to ice. One of my brothers is hit.
“We need transport.” I'm thinking out loud now, tactical mind sorting through options. “Something fast.”
“The garage.” Katarina's grip on my hand shifts, and suddenly, she's pulling me in a different direction. “I know the fastest way out of here.”
I let her lead, trusting her knowledge of the estate's layout. She guides us down a service corridor I hadn't noticed during our initial sweep—narrower than the main hallways, designed for staff movement.
“My father keeps his collection there. Sports cars, motorcycles.” Her voice carries a note of grim satisfaction.
We reach the end of the service corridor just as Alexi and Dmitri appear from the opposite direction. Alexi's left shoulder is dark with blood, but he's still moving. Dmitri supports him while covering their retreat with bursts from his rifle.
“Took you long enough,” Alexi pants, his usual smirk strained around the edges.
“You're hit.” I move toward him, but he waves me off.
“Flesh wound. Keep moving.”
Behind them, the heavy footsteps of pursuit echo through the corridors. Igor's men are regrouping, following our path. More shouts in Russian—they're coordinating, closing in from multiple angles.
“This way.” Katarina pulls us toward a heavy door. “The garage connects to the main drive. We can circle around to avoid the front entrance.”
Dmitri fires another controlled burst down the hallway we just vacated. “How many vehicles?”
“Enough.” Katarina places her thumb against the panel next to it. “My father's paranoid about security, but I've not been removed from access to all areas.”
The electronic lock disengages with a soft beep. The garage beyond is massive—concrete floors polished to a mirror shine, fluorescent lighting revealing row after row of expensive machinery. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, motorcycles that cost more than most people's houses.
“Choose fast.” Alexi grits his teeth as blood seeps through his fingers pressed against his shoulder.
More gunfire erupts behind us. Closer now. Igor's men have reached the service corridor.
“There.” I point to a black Ducati near the exit bay. “Two people, fast acceleration.”
“And the rest of us?” Dmitri's voice carries dry amusement even as he reloads his weapon.
Katarina's already moving toward a midnight-blue McLaren. “This one. Four seats, bulletproof glass.”
“The lady knows her cars,” Nikolai observes, following her.
The garage's main door begins rumbling open—triggered by the automatic system.
Alexi slides into the McLaren's passenger seat while Dmitri takes the wheel. Blood stains the leather, but Alexi's eyes remain sharp and focused.
“Keys?” Dmitri's hands hover over the steering column.
Katarina tosses him a set from a pegboard near the door.
I swing my leg over the Ducati. “Katarina, get on.”
She climbs behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist. Her breath is warm against my neck through the tactical gear.
“Ready?” I call to my brothers.
The McLaren's engine roars to life as I kick the Ducati into gear. The garage door finishes opening, revealing the curved driveway that leads to the estate's perimeter.
“Go!” I gun the motorcycle forward, Katarina's grip tightening around my waist.
We burst from the garage in formation—the McLaren beside us, Dmitri's hands steady on the wheel despite the chaos. The night air hits my face as we accelerate down the drive, headlights cutting through the darkness.
Muzzle flashes erupt from the estate's windows. The sharp crack of rifle fire splits the air, followed by the metallic ping of bullets striking pavement inches from our wheels.
“Left!” I shout, yanking the handlebars hard. The Ducati leans into the turn, tires screaming against the asphalt.
The McLaren follows Dmitri, taking the curve with effortless ease. More gunfire erupts behind us—Igor's men have reached the vehicles, engines revving as they give chase.
“Two cars following,” Nikolai's voice crackles through my earpiece. “Black SUVs.”
I glance in the side mirror. Headlights gaining fast, growing larger. The distinctive bulk of armored vehicles—Igor isn't taking chances.
“They're shooting!” Katarina's voice is tight against my ear.
Bullets spark off the road beside us. The McLaren's rear windshield spider-webs but holds—the bulletproof glass doing its job. Dmitri swerves right, then left, making us a harder target to hit.
The estate's main gate looms ahead, wrought iron barriers already sliding closed. Igor's final gambit—trap us inside his domain.
“The gap's shrinking,” Alexi's voice cuts through static, blood loss making his words slightly slurred.
I twist the throttle, feeling the Ducati's engine respond. The gap between the closing gates narrows—maybe six feet and getting smaller.
“Stay tight behind me,” I radio to Dmitri.
The Ducati shoots forward, Katarina's breath sharp against my neck. The gate's metal edges blur past us with inches to spare. Behind us, the McLaren follows, scraping paint as it squeezes through the closing gap.
More gunfire erupts from the SUVs now trapped behind the gates. But we're clear of the estate, racing toward the main road.
“Turn right at the intersection,” Katarina shouts over the wind. “There's a service road that connects to the highway.”
The pursuing vehicles won't stay trapped long. Igor has other exits and other routes. We need distance before his men regroup.