The smell hit him before he cleared the doorway.
Coffee. Freshly brewed. Not the instant shit he usually drank to stay warm. Good stuff and not his. He stepped into the kitchen, weapon raised.
Two men.
The first was heavyset and bearded, tattoos visible above the collar of a black tactical jacket. His knuckles were flattened from old breaks. Nose too straight to be natural. Violence had lived in him a long time.
And now he stood at Pav’s stove with a French press, pouring coffee into Pav’s mug like he was hosting a fucking dinner party.
The second sat at Pav’s table, boots propped on the scarred wood, scrolling through a phone with one hand. But Pav knew he’d already mapped the exits, the angles, the bodies in the room. Blond. Lean. Expensive gear worn correctly instead of fashionably.
Operator.
The jerky in his other hand was from the batch Pav had made two weeks ago. Neither flinched. The blond man’s gaze flicked to Pav’s trigger finger before returning to his face.
Professional contractors.Not local muscle or the police.
“How do you like your coffee?” The bearded one asked in a cultured English accent, holding up the mug as if this was normal.
What the hell?—
“Milk? Sugar?” The man continued as if Pav hadn’t spoken. “I’m guessing black, but?—”
“Get on your knees.” Pav motioned to the floor with his gun. “Both of you.Now.”
The blond one sighed, still chewing. He swung his boots off the table with exaggerated slowness. He raised one hand in a placating gesture, still holding the jerky. “Look, this is a surprise. We get that?—”
Pav fired.
The rifle’s report cracked through the small space. Wood exploded from the center of his table, splinters flying as the bullet punched through and buried itself in the floorboards beneath.
Both intruders stared at the smoking hole. Their attention shifted back to Pav.
The blond one raised an eyebrow. “You know that’s your table, right?” His accent was Russian but tinged with something else. Scandinavian?
Pav saw three ways to end it before the man finished moving. He chambered another round. “Last chance. On your?—”
The bearded one lunged, closing the distance between them in a split second, his hand going for Pav’s rifle barrel.
Pav pivoted, pulled the weapon back, and used the man’s momentum to drive the stock into his ribs. The bearded mangrunted under the impact and grabbed the rifle with both hands. They grappled for control, boots scraping over the floorboards.
The bearded man had weight on him and knew how to use it. Pav released his hold on the gun.
The sudden lack of resistance threw the man off balance. Pav stepped in, drove his fist up into the man’s jaw. His knuckles connected and his attacker’s head snapped back, blood spraying from his lip.
Movement. The Russian.
Pav spun, but the blond was already inside the turn, too fast for a civilian, too clean for a brawler. An arm hooked around Pav’s throat from behind, locked tight.
Fuck.
Pav dropped his chin, dug both hands into the restraining arm, and shifted his weight to break the angle.
The bearded one scooped Pav’s rifle from where it had fallen and aimed it at Pav’s chest, breathing hard. “Gentlemen. We’re all very dangerous. We’ve established that. Can we please skip to the part where we don’t kill each other?”
Wind rattled the window.
“I’m going to set the rifle down,” the bearded one said slowly. “Then my friend Zak is going to release you. And then we talk. Fair?”
