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I’m certain, I’ll be walking straight into a trap but my life stopped meaning anything the moment hers was put on the line.

All because of me. The realisation hits like a blade sliding between my ribs.

Golden Bird.

Elara.

The rage burns inside me, turning everything into ash. Four days. Elara has been trapped for four fucking days,

and I spent every one of them hating her for leaving me.

A hollow, broken sound claws its way out of my chest. I drag a hand down my face, nails biting into my skin like I deserve the pain. It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough. I failed her.

And she’s the one paying for it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket already knowing it’s Roman but I don’t stop to see his text.

I know he’s figured out everything by now, and he must be returning to put a bullet through my skull.

Asking for his help would be the logical move, the smart move, but I’m past logic.

Vasily wanted me alone, and I’m not risking Elara’s life by bringing agents of mayhem into the mix, not when I’ve already failed her once.

I wouldn’t put it past him to hurt Elara, and judging by the black eye, he’s already done it once.

I am going to kill the motherfucker.

Vasily Zaytsev is going to die by my hands tonight.

“Stop, son.” The voice booms from the speakers above halting me in my spot. My jaw grits as he calls me son yet I remain unperturbed on the outside.

The wide stretch of land is crawling with guards, scattered in calculated positions that leave no blind spots. This property never showed up in the data I hacked.

Vasily keeping it buried deep; off every system I combed through. No wonder it slipped past my surveillance when I tried to track him down

“Free him of the extra weight.” He orders. The guards in front of the mansion surge towards me.

One of them lunges for the pistol at my back, but I turn on instinct, catching his arm and twisting until a sharp crack splits the air.

Static hisses through the comm before his voice cuts in. “Sergei. This isn’t the way to get what you want.” He growls it like a warning.

I tighten my grip just enough to make the man in front of me choke on his own breath.

“I’ll disarm myself.” I say, my voice steady. “But call off your dogs unless you want me to start thinning them out.”

“You are in no position to threaten me.” He yells and before he could speak again, my movements turn quick as I drop low, ripping the guns from my ankles in one fluid motion, firing at the eight men around me.

Then I drop the empty guns, metal clattering across the tiled floor, and reach behind my back, ripping out the pistol tucked against my spine before tossing it aside too.

A blade slides free from the sheath strapped along my bicep, another from the other arm. A smaller knife from inside my boot follows, hitting the floor with a dull clang.

I reach beneath my jacket, pulling the last of it free—a compact derringer hidden under my ribs—and let it fall with the rest.

Steel litters the ground around me.

I straighten, empty-handed now.