“East wing secure!” Luka's voice crackled through the damaged comm. “Server room accessed. Pulling files. He's been laundering through half of Europe.”
“Copy,” Viktor said between shots. Reloading without looking. Muscle memory. “We're moving for the study.”
We pushed forward. Every corridor another war. Bodies piling up. Blood slicking expensive floors, making footing treacherous. The manor had become a charnel house.
The air reeked of cordite and burnt velvet and copper. Of piss and shit from dying men. Of smoke from fires spreading through expensive drapes.
My quiver felt light. Too light. I checked. Eight arrows left. Plus the pistol. Plus my knives.
Enough. Had to be enough.
We reached a junction. Three corridors branching off like a trident.
Viktor held up his fist. We stopped. Listened.
Footsteps. Multiple. Heavy boots. Professional spacing.
“Ambush,” I whispered.
Viktor nodded. Signaled to Dom and Troy. They split. Flanking positions.
The mercenaries came around the corner in a disciplined line. Five of them. Weapons up. Moving like they owned the place.
We hit them from three angles simultaneously.
My arrow took the lead man through the chest. He went down hard, gasping like a landed fish.
Viktor's knife found another's kidney. Twisted. Withdrew. The man collapsed.
Dom's rifle thundered. Another mercenary's head snapped back in a spray of red mist.
But the remaining two were good. Really good. They adapted instantly, using their fallen comrades as cover, returning fire with precision that forced us back.
One of them pulled a flashbang.
“Eyes!” Viktor shouted.
I closed my eyes. Turned away. The bang was still deafening even through my palms. Light blazed through my eyelids.
When I opened them, both mercenaries were charging. One at Viktor. One at me.
Mine had a machete. Long. Curved. Wicked sharp.
He swung for my head. I ducked. Blade whistled past close enough to feel the displaced air.
He reversed. Came back with a backhand slash. I barely got my bow up in time. The machete bit into the dark wood. Stuck.
I yanked. He held on. We struggled. Strength against strength.
He was winning. Older. More experienced. Muscles like steel cables.
I let go. He stumbled forward, off-balance.
I drove my knife into his armpit. Where the vest didn't cover. Upinto his heart.
His eyes went wide. Shocked. Like he'd never considered he could lose.
I twisted the blade. His grip on the machete loosened. He fell.
