This should be over soon. It had to be.
I dropped the magazine, slammed a fresh one into the grip, and racked the slide before moving again.
Then the blast hit.
The sound tore through the mansion from the west wing—a dull, concussive thump that rattled the chandeliers and shook dust from the ceiling. My head snapped toward it instantly.
The study.
They were going for Pakhan.
I took off at a sprint, boots skidding on marble slick with blood. Another muffled boom echoed ahead, closer this time, followed by the screech of tortured metal. Not a clean breach—controlled charges, shaped to buckle hinges and frames without shattering the door. Whoever planned this knew exactly what they were doing.
The study was only a few turns ahead now.
I was almost there when a shot cracked down the corridor.
Something slammed into my upper arm.
For a split second I didn’t even feel it—just the impact, hard enough to jerk my shoulder sideways. Then the burn hit, hot and vicious, spreading through my bicep.
“Fuck.”
I dropped behind the corner wall, blood already soaking through my jacket. Another round tore into the plaster above my head, showering dust across my shoulders.
Someone had decided I wasn’t getting to that study alive.
I leaned out just long enough to catch the muzzle flash halfway down the corridor. The bastard had cover behind an overturned console table.
I stepped out fast and fired.
He fired back at the same time. The shot went wide, smashing a mirror behind me. Mine didn’t. The bullet punched straight through his chest and sent him collapsing backward over the table.
Silence swallowed the hallway again.
I glanced down at my arm. The sleeve of my coat was already darkening where the bullet had torn through.
I shrugged the coat off with my good arm and let it drop to the floor, teeth clenching as the movement pulled at the wound. The shirt beneath was already starting to stain, a slow bloom spreading through the fabric over my bicep. Could’ve been worse.
“Great,” I muttered.
Another dull blast shook the west wing.
The study.
I didn’t give a damn about the wound. I pushed off the wall and kept moving.
The safe room was built like a vault—thick steel door, reinforced frame sunk deep into concrete. You couldn’t blow it apart. But you didn’t have to. You just had to bend it. Fold the frame enough to get fingers in.
Smoke rolled across the room in heavy waves. The smell of explosives burned my throat. Furniture was overturned, glass shattered, paintings torn from the walls. The safe-room door loomed at the far end—warped now, its edges peeled away from the frame like a wound forced open.
Two men were already inside the breach. One of them laughed, breathless and sharp.
“Eyes on,” he breathed into the mic. “Executing the order.”
I didn’t give them the chance.
I raised the gun and fired twice. Both shots were clean. Final.
