36. Dmitri
DMITRI
The first shot cracks through the hotel. Cara’s breath snaps through the wire.
The maintenance feed jolts as our guard drops behind the cart. His camera catches the corridor in broken pieces—the receptionist ducking near the lobby, a white burst from the wall near Cara’s shoulder, Patrick’s hand clamping around Cara’s arm.
Then the image swings hard and fills with the edge of the desk.
“Patrick has her,” Vera pants through the line. “Moving her toward the service corridor.”
A second voice cuts in, lower and closer to the lift.
Our maintenance guard.
“Confirmed,” he says. “Patrick has her by the arm. He’s pulling her my way.”
The feed cuts to static.
“Camera down,” the tech says.
I throw the car door open before Maksim finishes saying my name.
“Damn,” I say, stepping into the cold. “The bastard has her as a shield.”
Roman slams the sedan into gear. “Hold on.”
I don’t answer. I break into a sprint. The car jumps the curb and skids beside me with the front door already open.
“Get in,” Roman shouts.
I dive in beside him, and he cuts past the renovation barriers and tears toward the side entrance. Dima’s car swings across the service lane ahead of us, tires shrieking on wet pavement.
Abramov’s voice hits my earpiece. “Lobby layer closing. No blind fire. Cara is near Patrick.”
Another shot cracks inside the hotel. Cara breathes through the wire, fast and hard. I hold on to that. Good. Breathe. For me. For you. For Mikhail.
Patrick swears at someone in the corridor.
Yuri’s voice cuts in from the estate annex. “Oak and Tron moved first.”
Abramov answers before I ask. “Two men at the service entrance opened fire.”
Ilya comes on, breath rough, gunfire popping low behind him. Suppressed shots. A grunt. Something metal clatters across pavement.
“One down,” Ilya says. “Second pinned behind delivery crates. Loading bay blocked.”
Roman throws the car sideways by the service lane, and I’m out before it stops rocking. Dima reaches me with two men behind him, guns low, eyes moving.
The side entrance bursts open from inside. An Oak and Tron guard stumbles backward, one arm bleeding, and Ilya’s man drives the butt of his gun across the guard’s jaw. The man drops beside stacked clinic crates.
Yuri snaps, “Maintenance feed is live. Our man by the lift picked up the side corridor camera, but the signal is weak.”
Maksim’s voice comes through the line, cold and clear. “Morozov is cleaning the room with her inside it.”
The tech runs behind Roman with the tablet raised. I catch one glimpse of the feed as we move, gray corridor, plastic sheeting, Cara’s coat, Patrick’s hand locked around her arm. Then the image flickers.
“Keep it alive,” I shout.
The tech curses and runs beside me, one hand on the tablet, the other pressed to his earpiece. Roman stays at my back. Dima takes the left wall. I take the right.
Ahead, the corridor bends toward the service lift. Another suppressed shot punches into the plaster beside my head. I don’t have time to duck. I don’t have time to slow down.
Kirill starts speaking too fast over the line. “Doors, lift, fake appointment, wallet check. We have all of it recorded.”
“Plain,” I snap.
He comes back fast. “Patrick is proving he still has the wallet records. Morozov’s people are using the hotel to trap him before he can release them. We have the money trail, and we have Morozov’s side trying to stop it.”
An alarm starts above us, calm and neat in a building with gunfire inside.
People scream in the lobby. Plastic sheeting snaps loose ahead and whips across the corridor.
Lights flicker over wrapped furniture, paint tins, and a half-built reception counter.
A rolling cart slams into the wall hard enough to spill folders across the floor.
Someone shouts in Russian for everyone to get down.
Dima cuts left and points two fingers toward a side office. “Office.”
I jerk my chin toward the door. “Clear it.”
He kicks it open, sweeps inside with his gun up, then waves one man through. Roman pulls the tech behind a stack of boxed fixtures.
The maintenance guard breaks into the line, his voice tight and close to the mic. “I have eyes. Patrick has her. She’s fighting him every step.”
“Hands,” I say, moving past the half-built counter.
“Right hand on her arm. Left hand on his phone. No weapon on her that I can see.”
Phone means records, access, or a dead-man switch. Arm means I can’t shoot through him.
I move faster. The corridor narrows near the service bend. Dima slides along the left wall. I take the right and keep my gun angled down until I have a clean line. Roman stays behind me.
Through the wire, Cara says, “Where are the records, Patrick?”
My teeth lock together. Good girl. She keeps him talking.
Patrick’s answer comes rough. “You don’t need to know.”
Cara fires back, “Morozov will kill you before you get to trade them.”
Something crashes near her microphone, followed by Patrick’s hissed breath.
“Morozov can’t kill me until he knows whether the wallet package has already gone to Volkov,” Patrick snaps.
Yuri barks in my ear. “Got it. Wallet package is the label.”
Kirill follows fast. “Patrick just opened it from his phone. It’s buried under a New Harbor archive file.”
Behind me, Roman drags a wounded Volkov man behind the half-built counter and shouts, “Meaning?”
Kirill comes through my earpiece. “Patrick used the key. The wallet package is the proof bundle.”
Yuri keeps talking. “It’s tying together. New Harbor, Sable Crown, Vostok, Oak and Tron, and Patrick’s own words.”
“What else do you need?” I ask, stepping over broken plastic.
Yuri answers fast. “Patrick gave us the package label. Now we need Morozov’s side to make a move on record. A lift override, corridor seal, phone wipe, cleanup order, anything protected.”
A round punches through the glass panel ahead. Roman yanks the tech behind the half-built counter before the tablet drops.
Dima fires twice down the corridor. A man drops behind a service cart.
“Left side clear,” Dima says, moving again.
Ilya’s team blocks the loading bay. Roman keeps the exit line open with a gun in one hand and pressure on the wounded man’s shoulder with the other.
“Antonov,” Roman calls. “Exit is yours.”
I keep moving.
Cara’s voice cuts through the wire, tight but clear. “Patrick, let go of my arm.”
Patrick answers too fast. “Then stop trying to get us both killed.”
Our maintenance guard comes on from the service bend, his voice flat. “I have visual. Patrick has her halfway through the service hall. Two Oak and Tron men above them.”
A burst of static cuts through his next breath.
“Correction,” he says. “Three.”
I hit the turn at the end of the corridor. Ahead, the narrow hall runs past half-installed cabinets, stacked chairs, and plastic sheeting taped over the far doorway. Above the cabinets, a short service gallery sits behind a metal rail and disappears toward the private lift.
Patrick has one arm locked around Cara and has stalled in the middle of the hall, caught between my side and the gallery.
Two armed men stand at the rail above him, guns angled down. A third shadow steps into the gallery light.
Viktor Morozov stands on the gallery in a dark overcoat, one bare hand resting on the rail, the other low at his side.
Patrick sees him at the same time I do and jerks Cara closer. My gun comes up, then stops. Bad angles. Glass everywhere. Cara caught between Patrick, Morozov’s men, and me.
Dima reaches my shoulder, breathing hard, and says, “No shot without hitting her.”
“I know,” I say, and every part of me hates that I do.
“I can trade,” Patrick calls up, his voice cracking around the words.
Morozov doesn’t answer.
Patrick shouts again, “I can give Volkov enough to bury you.” The threat cracks halfway through and turns into pleading.
Cara sees me. Through the wire, she says, “Dmitri.”
Morozov lifts one hand. Patrick turns to Cara, and something in his face breaks.
“Cara,” he says, and for one rotten second, he sounds like her brother.
Then he drags her tight against him and hooks one arm across her chest. She twists hard, chin up, fighting for every inch he takes.
“You need me,” Patrick calls up, his voice cracking.
Morozov rests one hand on the upper gallery rail. “I needed you silent.”
Cara’s eyes flick toward the corridor where I stand. My weapon comes up. Dima reaches the corner ahead of me and lifts one hand.
Stop.
I stop because he can see the angle before I can. Morozov stands above the service corridor, but Cara is below him, Patrick’s arm is across her. One bad shot gives Morozov’s men a reason to fire down into her.
“Let her go,” I say, keeping my weapon trained where I can use it if the angle changes.
Patrick jerks his head toward my voice. “Antonov. Good. Listen to me. I have everything. Wallets, approvals, payments after the fire. I can give you Morozov.”
Morozov looks at me, then back at Patrick. “You made yourself expensive.”
Patrick laughs, high and cracked. “I made myself necessary.”
Morozov lifts his gun. “You made noise.”
Kirill speaks in my ear. “Patrick’s proof file is uploading.”
Yuri comes in fast. “Morozov used a protected account to get onto the gallery. That ties him to the attack.”
Maksim enters the line from the estate. “Record it all.”
Patrick points his phone toward the ceiling. “If I die, the full file goes out.”
Morozov’s face doesn’t change. “Then send them.”
Patrick freezes. For one second, he looks like he finally understands the deal has ended. Morozov lifts his gun. Cara sees it. Her body goes still, then her eyes cut to mine.
I move. “Down, Cara.”
Morozov fires.
Cara drops before the shot reaches her. It punches into Patrick’s chest instead. He falls back, grabbing for her sleeve, but she rips free as he goes down. His phone skids under the plastic runner. One hand reaches for it, fingers scraping against the floor.
I reach Cara in three strides, drive her lower, and put myself over her as Dima fires up at the gallery.
Morozov’s men answer. Bullets tear into the wall behind us. The maintenance guard swings his cart into the corridor, blocking one sightline from the lift. Vera pulls a fallen clerk behind the admin desk and shoves the receptionist flat before she can run into the open.
I haul Cara behind a half-built counter as plaster spits across the tile.
She gasps my name.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, checking her fast.
Cara shakes under my hand. “No.”
Another round breaks the counter edge above us.
Dima yells, “Gallery right.”
I pull Cara closer and fire once toward the muzzle flash, enough to force Morozov’s man back.
Patrick wheezes on the floor ten feet away.
His eyes find Cara.
“Care Bear,” he chokes, reaching for her with a bloody hand.
Cara stares at him, face pale, breathing hard. I hold her because I don’t know if she will reach back. She doesn’t.
Above us, Morozov looks down from the gallery. His eyes move from Patrick’s phone to me, and something in his face changes. He knows the records have left Patrick’s control. I keep Cara behind me and raise my gun. Ten feet from us, Patrick coughs blood, reaching for a deal no one will honor.
Morozov steps back from the rail as his men close around him.