Page 150 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Patrick stops. His fingers dig into my arm.

The service door bangs open. A shout tears through the corridor. Then the first shot cracks into the wall beside us.

36

DMITRI

The first shot cracks through the hotel. Cara’s breath snaps through the wire.

The maintenance feed jolts as our guard drops behind the cart. His camera catches the corridor in broken pieces—the receptionist ducking near the lobby, a white burst from the wall near Cara’s shoulder, Patrick’s hand clamping around Cara’s arm.

Then the image swings hard and fills with the edge of the desk.

“Patrick has her,” Vera pants through the line. “Moving her toward the service corridor.”

A second voice cuts in, lower and closer to the lift.

Our maintenance guard.

“Confirmed,” he says. “Patrick has her by the arm. He’s pulling her my way.”

The feed cuts to static.

“Camera down,” the tech says.

I throw the car door open before Maksim finishes saying my name.

“Damn,” I say, stepping into the cold. “The bastard has her as a shield.”

Roman slams the sedan into gear. “Hold on.”

I don’t answer. I break into a sprint. The car jumps the curb and skids beside me with the front door already open.

“Get in,” Roman shouts.

I dive in beside him, and he cuts past the renovation barriers and tears toward the side entrance. Dima’s car swings across the service lane ahead of us, tires shrieking on wet pavement.

Abramov’s voice hits my earpiece. “Lobby layer closing. No blind fire. Cara is near Patrick.”

Another shot cracks inside the hotel. Cara breathes through the wire, fast and hard. I hold on to that. Good. Breathe. For me. For you. For Mikhail.

Patrick swears at someone in the corridor.

Yuri’s voice cuts in from the estate annex. “Oak and Tron moved first.”

Abramov answers before I ask. “Two men at the service entrance opened fire.”

Ilya comes on, breath rough, gunfire popping low behind him. Suppressed shots. A grunt. Something metal clatters across pavement.

“One down,” Ilya says. “Second pinned behind delivery crates. Loading bay blocked.”

Roman throws the car sideways by the service lane, and I’m out before it stops rocking. Dima reaches me with two men behind him, guns low, eyes moving.

The side entrance bursts open from inside. An Oak and Tron guard stumbles backward, one arm bleeding, and Ilya’s man drives the butt of his gun across the guard’s jaw. The man drops beside stacked clinic crates.

Yuri snaps, “Maintenance feed is live. Our man by the lift picked up the side corridor camera, but the signal is weak.”

Maksim’s voice comes through the line, cold and clear. “Morozov is cleaning the room with her inside it.”