Page 136 of Secret Heir

The perfect place to hide.

We park three blocks away and approach on foot. We’re radio silent, using hand signals only. We move through the shadows like ghosts.

Dmitri takes point with the first team—six men who will breach the front entrance. Pavel leads the second team around back to cover the rear exit. I’m with Nikolai and three others, positioned to provide support and cut off any escape routes.

The building is dark except for a light on the third floor. Someone’s home. Dmitri makes a signal. There’s one guard outside the front entrance, smoking a cigarette, and he’s armed. We wait until he turns away, then Dmitri moves quickly and silently. The guard doesn’t even have time to reach for his weapon before Dmitri’s blade opens his throat.

The body drops without a sound, and Dmitri drags it into the shadows before he signals the all-clear.

The team moves to the entrance. One of them picks the lock, then they’re inside.

I follow with Nikolai, moving through the dark hallway. The building smells like mold and decay. Our footsteps are silent on the dirty floor. We clear the first floor. Empty. The second floor is also empty.

Then we hear voices from above in Russian and we freeze, straining. I can hear two men, maybe three. Dmitri carefully leads the team up the stairs with each step measured to avoid creaking.

At the top of the stairs, there’s a hallway with three doors. Light spills from under the middle door. The voices are coming from there.

Dmitri positions his team. On his signal, they breach.

The door explodes inward with a crash of splintering wood.

“Hands up! On the ground now!”

There’s shouting and heavy footsteps. Then gunfire erupts.

The sound is deafening in the enclosed space. Muzzle flashes light up the hallway like strobes. I instinctively start to move, my gun up, and my body running on instinct and years of training. My ribs scream in protest, but I ignore them.

The room is chaos. There are two men—Corsicans by the look of them, dark-haired and muscular—returning fire from behind overturned furniture. One of our men is down, blood spreading across his chest.

I aim and fire two shots. The first Corsican goes down, bullet holes appearing in his chest.

The second one swings his weapon toward me, but Pavel is faster. Three shots and the man drops.

Then there’s silence except for the ringing in my ears.

Dmitri’s team clears the room. “Two hostiles down. One of ours wounded. Where’s⁠—”

“Here.”

The voice comes from the corner of the room.

Alexander Morozov steps out from behind a door, his hands raised. He’s wearing dark clothes, his burn-scarred hand visible without gloves. His blue eyes assess the situation with eerie calm.

“I surrender,” he says. “Don’t shoot.”

But his foot shifts slightly, and I see it—a gun on the floor, partially hidden by debris. He’s going for it.

I fire.

The bullet catches him in the left thigh and he goes down with a shout, his hand grabbing at the wound as blood pours between his fingers.

“Clear!” Dmitri shouts. “Building is secure!”

I walk toward Alexander, my gun trained on him. He’s on the ground and breathing hard, his face twisted with pain.

“Hello, Alexander,” I growl.

He looks up at me. Even wounded, there’s no fear in his eyes. He looks almost…amused?