“You ready, kid?” I ask, looking back to Pavel.
He nods solemnly.
Belov’s men are visible before we even stop. They aren’t dressed in uniform. They don’t need to be. They stand at corners with rigid posture and blank faces, scanning the street like they already know what to look for. They have the relaxed confidence of men who believe the building behind them cannot be breached.
Sergei lets Pavel out of the car and sends him over to one of the guards. We watch from a short distance, but close enough that we can take him out if he decides to change the script. He’s supposed to tell the guards the truth—he was kidnapped by Viktor Kovalev, and Viktor is on his way to ruin the wedding.
We watch as he gestures dramatically to the guard. My hands stay steady on the wheel. The moment Belov appears, I’ll be ready.
Sergei shifts in his seat. “You need to remember the objective.”
“My objective is her,” I say.
“I meant the method,” he says. “You cannot shoot innocent guests. You cannot lose control.”
“No one at this sham wedding is innocent,” I reply coldly.
I believe that when I say it. I also know there likely are some people in that building who don’t deserve to die. I also know thatmy woman is inside a building full of enemies, who will happily step over her body.
The radio crackles once in my ear. Misha’s voice comes through, clipped and controlled. “Power is ready.”
“Almost there,” I say. “We’re holding for Belov.”
A second later, Belov comes out of the warehouse, looking for Pavel.
Sergei exhales slowly. “Do it,” he tells Misha.
The block goes darker a second later. Not pitch-black, but enough that the venue’s warm glow flickers and dies, leaving only emergency lighting inside. The street lights stay on. The outside cameras lose their feed. Belov’s men react immediately, heads lifting, posture tightening, hands moving closer to jackets.
That’s the moment the first shots hit, but they’re not ours. Belov has shooters posted, and he doesn’t hesitate. He fires toward the side street where he thinks the threat is coming from. He wants to pin us before we can get close. His men fan out and start moving with purpose.
He’s good, but not good enough.
Sergei leans forward. “Now.”
I drive straight at the front barricade.
Belov’s men aren’t expecting that. They’re expecting us to come in cautiously, to test the perimeter, to hesitate because there are civilians and guests. They’re expecting a standoff. They’re expecting diplomacy.
I don’t slow. The car hits the first barrier and the metal scrapes under the tires. A guard jumps aside at the last possible second.The second guard tries to raise his gun. Sergei leans out the window and puts him down with two clean shots before the man can fire.
The sound of gunfire triggers panic inside. I can see silhouettes shifting behind the windows and people turning toward exits. I can see the illusion of a wedding collapsing into exactly what it always was: a staged event built on blood.
I slam the car to a stop at an angle that gives us cover.
The air smells like salt and oil and exhaust. My pulse is steady. My mind is not.
“Stay tight,” Sergei tells the men behind us over comms. “Do not spray rounds. You fire only when you have a target. Confirm before you pull the trigger.”
Everyone answers him. Everyone knows Sergei’s discipline is the only way we’ll survive long enough to reach her.
I step out and move fast, using the car as a shield. Bullets crack into the metal, sharp and close. One hits the windshield and the glass spiderwebs across the surface. Another pings off the doorframe near my shoulder. Belov’s men are already repositioning, trying to create crossfire.
I don’t give them time. I take the first man down with a shot to the throat. He drops without a sound. The second man tries to duck behind a concrete post. I put one round into his chest, then one into his head when he tries to recover.
My men move behind me in tight formation. They don’t bunch up. They don’t hesitate. They keep the angles covered.
The side entrance bursts open across the lot as Misha’s team hits it. Smoke blooms from the doorway, not from fire, but from acanister meant to disrupt sightlines. It’s not for theatrics. It’s for speed.
