6. Ilya
ILYA
"I-Ilya, please," Fyodor wheezes. He’s tied to a heavy steel chair bolted to the concrete floor. His face has turned to a purple, lumpy mess of swollen meat and split skin. "I didn't have a choice. They had my brother. The Russo family... they said they’d skin him."
I don't look up from the table. I’m selecting a pair of heavy, rusted pliers. They aren't clean. The iron is pitted, designed to tear the flesh rather than slice it.
The basement smells of lime and concrete rot. It’s a dry, cold smell that clings to the back of my throat.
"Everyone has a choice, Fyodor. You could have come to me to protect your brother," I say, my voice flat. "You chose to betray me. Now you both die. It’s simple math."
"I gave them nothing!" he screams, his voice cracking into a wet, bubbly sob as I step into the pool of light. "I swear! Just the perimeter guard schedules! Nothing truly important!"
"That's the lie that gets you the slow death," I say.
I grab his jaw with one hand, my fingers digging into the soft tissue under his ears until his mouth is forced open.
He tries to thrash, his boots scraping against the concrete, but the steel chains holding his chest to the chair don't give an inch.
I slide the cold iron of the pliers over his left canine.
"Dimitri," I grunt.
"Ready, Boss," Dimitri says from the shadows, holding a bucket of industrial salt.
"No, no, please—"
I twist.
The sound of a tooth breaking off from the jawbone mixes with Fyodor’s scream, a high-pitched, guttural shriek that bounces off the reinforced concrete walls.
His chest arches so violently that I hear his ribs pop against the chains.
Blood fountains out of his mouth, thick and dark, splashing over my knuckles and dripping onto my boots.
I toss the bloody tooth onto the concrete floor. It makes a small clink.
"The salt, Dimitri," I say, wiping my fingers on my trousers.
Dimitri steps forward and dumps a handful of coarse salt directly into Fyodor’s open, bleeding mouth.
The scream that follows isn't human. It’s a wet, choking gurgle as the salt burns the raw nerve endings.
Fyodor’s eyes roll back into his head, his body shaking in a violent, uncontrollable seizure of pure agony.
"Now," I say, leaning down until my mouth is inches from his ear, smelling his sweat and the hot copper of his blood. "Tell me which gate you sold them."
He’s coughing, spitting up bloody salt crystals onto his chest. "The... the east," he gasps, his spit pink and bubbly. "The service gate. Tonight. They’re coming tonight, Ilya. Please... let me go."
I stand up, tossing the pliers onto the metal table. "No."
Before I can grab the next tool, the overhead lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then they go out completely, leaving us in the pitch black.
The emergency red lights hum to life three seconds later, bathing the basement in a dull, bloody glow.
Then the klaxon starts, a low, rhythmic wail that vibrates through the concrete under my boots.
"Breach," Dimitri says, his gun already in his hand. "East wing."
The east gate. The bastard lied about the timing.
I don't waste time on a bullet. I grab the heavy steel bar from the table and drive the blunt end straight through Fyodor’s throat, crushing his windpipe in a single, heavy strike. He chokes, his eyes wide and bulging in the red light as his lungs fill with blood.
"Let's go," I say, pulling my Glock from its holster. "They’re here for the girl."
My blood is instantly hot, the cold detachment of the torture room vanishing into a raw, focused hunger for violence. Petr Denisov sent his extraction team. He actually thought he could come into my house and take what is mine.
We run up the narrow concrete stairs, the wail of the siren growing louder with every step. The air upstairs is already different—thick with the scents of cordite and burnt plaster.
"They cut the main feed," Dimitri grunts as we reach the main hallway of the ground floor. "We have twenty, maybe thirty men inside."
"Kill them all," I growl. "I’ll clear the stairs. Keep them away from the west wing. Ekaterina’s there."
"And the girl?"
"She's mine," I say. "Nobody touches her."
I turn the corner into the grand foyer just as two hitmen in black gear break through the shattered glass of the side entrance. They aren't street thugs. They move in a tight, professional wedge, rifles raised.
I don't wait for them to see me. I drop to one knee, raising the Glock.
Pop. Pop.
The first man takes two rounds to the throat, his rifle clattering to the marble floor as he collapses like a sack of wet sand. The second man swings his barrel toward me, but I’m already moving. I slide across the polished stone, catching him at the knees.
He hits the floor hard, the air leaving him in a sharp grunt. I drive my elbow into his nose, feeling the bone shatter under my weight. He tries to reach for his sidearm, but I grab his head with both hands and twist.
Crack.
His body goes limp.
Two.
I stand up, grabbing his rifle, an HK416, and checking the magazine. Full. I swing the strap over my shoulder and head toward the main staircase.
Three more men appear at the top of the landing, their rifles spitting fire before I can even reach the first step. Bullets chew through the drywall, showering me in white dust. I dive behind a heavy marble pillar, the stone chipping next to my ear.
"He’s behind the pillar!" one of them shouts in Russian. "Flush him out!"
I don't give them the chance. I lean out from the left side, firing three short, controlled bursts.
The middle man takes a burst to the chest, his body tumbling down the marble stairs in a grotesque, bouncing roll. The other two dive for cover behind the oak balustrade.
I run up the stairs, firing as I go to keep their heads down. The wood is splintering, flying into my face and cutting my cheek. I don't feel the pain. I only feel the target.
As I reach the landing, one of the men charges me, his rifle empty, swinging it like a club. He’s massive, a wall of muscle in a flak jacket. He catches me in the ribs with the butt of the gun.
My breath leaves me in a hot rush, a sharp pain radiating through my left side.
Cracked rib. He swings again, but I duck under the blow, driving my shoulder into his stomach.
We hit the wall together, the plaster cracking behind him.
I drop the empty rifle and pull my combat knife from my boot.
I drive the blade straight upward, under his chin, through the soft palate, and into his brain.
His eyes go wide, his hands clawing at my sleeves for a desperate second before his fingers go slack.
Four.
The fifth man is behind me, his handgun raised. I don't have time to pull the knife out of the dead man’s skull. I grab the corpse by the vest and spin him around just as the fifth man fires.
Two rounds sink into the dead man’s back.
I use the weight of the body to plow into the shooter, knocking him off his feet.
We roll onto the landing, and I wrap my hands around his throat, driving my thumbs into his windpipe with everything I have.
He’s scratching at my face, his nails tearing into my cheek, but I don't let go until his eyes bulge and his chest stops moving.
Five.
I stand up, my chest heaving, my shirt soaked in sweat and three different men’s blood.
I can feel a warm, sticky trail running down my side from where a bullet grazed my ribs during the stair climb.
My hand is shaking slightly, not from fear, but from the sheer volume of adrenaline pumping through my heart.
Via.
I run down the corridor of the north wing, my boots leaving bloody prints on the white carpet. The wail of the siren is a dull hum in my ears now. It’s quiet, but it’s a dangerous kind of quiet.
I reach the door of the north suite. It’s been breached. The biometric lock has been blown off with a small, high-explosive charge, the wood around the frame charred and splintered.
My heart drops into my stomach. A cold, heavy panic hits me, the kind of panic I haven't felt since I was seventeen years old, standing over my mother’s body.
"Via!" I roar, rushing through the threshold.
The room is in ruins. The velvet curtains are torn, the small table overturned, glass from the water pitcher scattered across the floor.
I sweep the room, my gun raised, my eyes scanning the shadows.
Then I hear it.
A tiny, wet gasp from the closet.
I move toward the double doors, my boots crunching on the broken glass. I pull one door open, my gun ready to fire.
She’s there.
She’s huddled in the corner of the small walk-in closet, buried under a pile of silk robes and dresses.
Her white lace wedding dress is torn, her bare shoulders shaking so violently, her bones look like they might break.
Her head is tucked into her knees, her hands clutching her ears as she hyperventilates in short, jagged gasps that sound like she’s choking.
She doesn't look up when the door opens. She’s completely gone, lost in the red of her own head.
"Via," I say, my voice rough, the anger in my chest suddenly turning into something soft. Something painful.
I reach down to grab her, to pull her out of the dark, when a shadow moves in the corner of my eye.
A mercenary, the sixth man, springs from behind the hanging rack of dresses. He’s got a combat knife, his face twisted in a desperate snarl as he lunges for my throat.
I don't have time to raise the gun.
I drop to one knee, catching his wrist with my left hand. The blade stops inches from my throat, the cold steel reflecting the red emergency light. He’s heavy, his weight pushing me back toward Via.
I can’t let him near her.
With a roar, I drive my head forward, slamming my forehead into his nose. I hear the bone snap, a spray of hot, thick blood hitting my face. He staggers back, and I grab his head, twisting his neck until I hear the wet, heavy crack of his vertebrae giving way.