Chapter 14 #3
Lazarev's expression shifts. Something darker. More dangerous. More broken. "You think you can walk away? After Yemen? After what you did?"
"Yemen was your failure, not mine." The words come out flat. Cold. Without mercy, because mercy is what got twenty-three people killed. "You provided faulty intelligence. You said the compound was clear of civilians. You were wrong."
"I gave you the best intelligence I had!"
"Your best got twenty-three people killed.
Families. Children." I step forward, putting myself between Lazarev and Isabella, weapon never wavering.
"I executed the mission based on your intel.
My after-action report stated the facts.
The investigation traced the failure to your rushed recon and faulty analysis.
You lost your clearance, your contractor status, your reputation. That's on you, not me."
"You destroyed my life!" Lazarev's voice cracks with years of projected guilt, of refusing to accept responsibility for his own incompetence. "You wrote that report knowing it would end my career!"
"I wrote the truth. You projected your guilt onto me rather than accept responsibility for your own failure.
" My finger stays on the trigger, pressure just short of firing.
"That's why you've been hunting me. That's why you're buying weaponized compounds.
Not for any tactical purpose. For revenge.
Because you couldn't live with what you did, so you decided I had to die for it. "
The remote beeps again. Four minutes to detonation.
Lazarev's finger tightens on his weapon. "I'm not letting you walk away. Not this time."
"Then you die here when the charges blow." I step forward again, closing distance, weapon aimed center mass. "Your choice. Die now from a bullet, or die in four minutes when this facility turns into an incinerator. Either way, you don't walk out of here."
For a moment, I think he'll shoot. His finger's on the trigger, his eyes promising violence, promising he'll take us both down if that's what it takes.
Part of me wants him to try. Wants the justification to put a round through his skull and end this vendetta permanently.
But then Van der Berg's team opens up with another burst of suppressing fire, and Lazarev dives for cover.
"Run!" I shout.
We hit the loading dock at full speed. Van der Berg's team covering our retreat, laying down enough fire to keep the Iron Choir security pinned and Lazarev's head down. Doors slam, tires scream, and we're moving before anyone can organize pursuit.
The remote on my vest beeps. Two minutes to detonation.
"Drive faster," I tell the driver. Not a request.
The engine roars. We weave through port district streets at speeds that blur the warehouses into shadows. Behind us, muzzle flashes still strobe in the darkness as Van der Berg's team breaks contact.
One minute.
"Everyone down!" I shout, pulling Isabella against me, shielding her with my body as the driver takes a hard corner.
The facility erupts.
The shaped charges detonate in sequence.
Containment explosions designed to incinerate without dispersing aerosols.
Fire blooms through the facility's roof, turning night into day.
Secondary explosions follow as other chemicals ignite, the temperature spiking high enough to see the heat shimmer from blocks away.
Twenty-five hundred degrees Celsius. Hot enough to destroy the compounds completely, hot enough to leave nothing but ash and melted metal, hot enough that anyone still inside when those charges blew is already dead.
I hope Lazarev stayed, hope he was stubborn enough, broken enough, to wait those final minutes thinking he could defuse my charges or survive the blast. Hope he died screaming in fire that burned hotter than Yemen ever did.
But I can't count on it. No body means no confirmation. And operators like Lazarev don't die easily.
The op is complete. The compounds are destroyed. The Iron Choir loses millions in weaponized research, and Lazarev loses his purchase.
This isn't over. It's just beginning.
Van der Berg's driver takes us through Rotterdam at speeds that blur the streets. Behind us, emergency sirens wail. Fire trucks, police, port security, all converging on a facility that's burning so hot the steel support beams are melting.
Isabella sits beside me, breathing hard, eyes wide but steady. No panic, no breakdown, just the adrenaline crash from running through a firefight and coming out alive.
"You did good," I tell her. "Identified all three compounds under pressure. Followed orders. Kept moving when rounds were flying."
"People died back there."
"Yes. Guards who chose to work for the Iron Choir, guards who would have killed you without hesitation if we'd failed." I don't soften it, don't pretend violence has a gentle face. "They knew the risks. They lost."
"Lazarev was buying the compounds. He was going to weaponize my delivery system."
"Yes." I catch her hand, grip tight. "He's been hunting me for years because I told the truth about Yemen. Now, he knows I destroyed millions in product he was purchasing. He won't stop until one of us is dead."
Isabella's hand finds mine. Grips back just as hard. "Then we make sure it's him."
The certainty in her voice does something to my throat. This woman who was a fugitive scientist only a short time ago is now committed to standing with me against a vendetta that could kill us both. No hesitation, no fear about what that commitment means.
Mine. The thought surfaces with possessive satisfaction that's equal parts dark and absolute.
She chose this. Chose me. Chose to stand in the fire rather than run from it.
And I'll burn the world down before I let Lazarev touch her.
Van der Berg's vehicle pulls into a different safe house. Industrial district, abandoned warehouse, the kind of place that won't ask questions about armed men and explosives residue.
"You're safe here for a day," Van der Berg says. "After that, my team pulls out. With or without you."
I don't thank him. Mercenaries don't want gratitude. They want payment and clean exits.
Luc's already coordinating with his European contacts. Getting us new documentation, new routes out of Rotterdam, new safe houses that aren't compromised. The network he's built over years of running black ops pays dividends now.
But all I can think about is Lazarev's face when he saw me. The cold satisfaction in his eyes, the promise of violence to come, the absolute certainty that he'd rather die than let this vendetta go unfinished.
He was buying weapons-grade compounds from the Iron Choir. And now that we've destroyed his purchase and exposed his involvement, he's going to use every resource he has to hunt us across Europe until he gets what he wants.
Until one of us is dead and the other is left carrying that weight.
Isabella leans against me, exhausted but alive. We destroyed the compounds, completed the mission, saved thousands of lives from weapons that would have killed indiscriminately.
But Lazarev's still breathing, which means I have one more job to finish.