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Alexei looks toward me. His face has gone pale, though his eyes remain sharp. “They want you to open it.”

I tighten my hold on Misha. “I wasn’t planning to offer tea.”

His mouth shifts, but the response costs him. His breath catches, and he leans harder against the wall.

I step close enough to check him. “Let me see the dressing.”

“Later.” Alexei closes his hand over mine before I can reach beneath his shirt.

“You’re bleeding through your clothes.”

He keeps my hand trapped. “Also later.”

Abramov tips the dining table on its side and shoves it against the front door. “Argue in the car.”

His earpiece crackles before the first blow strikes the door.

“The outer team has the sedan boxed,” he says. “The rifleman and driver aren’t going anywhere. Rear team has sealed the service entrance.”

The deadbolt tears deeper into the frame under another hit.

Misha flinches against me but stays quiet. His fingers hook into my sweater, and I rub the back of his neck.

“Look at me,” I tell him. “Hold on and do exactly what I say.”

He nods once. Then I notice the battered yellow race car in his fist.

“Hold it for me, Mama.”

A third blow drives the door inward, and the reinforced frame groans around the lock.

I take the car from Misha and keep it in my fist.

Abramov points at two men. “Keep the front shut. We take the service stairs as soon as the shooter below turns.”

One guard braces behind the overturned dining table while the other takes position beside the entry shelf. Neither wastes a bullet through the wood.

Alexei pushes away from the wall. “Tell the rear team to hit the service entrance from below.”

Abramov relays the order, listens, then nods. “They’re in position.”

“Shoot out the hallway lights and fire twice through the bottom of the door,” Alexei says, wiping the blood from his palm onto his coat. “When the men outside move and the shooter downstairs turns toward the rear team, we take the landing from above.”

Abramov gives the order with a sharp hand signal.

The lights outside go dark.

Two guards fire through the lower part of the front door. Someone curses in the corridor, followed by running steps and a burst of gunfire through the upper part of the door. A heavy crash sounds from the service entrance below us.

“Now,” Abramov says, sweeping us toward the kitchen.

The lead guard opens the service door and fires once down the stairs. A body strikes the railing below.

I take one step, then stop when Alexei sways behind me. His hand catches the doorframe, sweat runs along his temple, and his breathing has shortened enough to scare me.

I slide my left arm around his waist, the yellow car still clenched in my fist. “Lean on me.”

Alexei braces his palm against the frame. “I’m heavier than I look.”