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Lyon lifted his weapon and fired. The man fell to the floor, and the one next to him quickly followed, thanks to Alek.
They waited, and Lyon silently prayed the man who’d spoken had been talking to his now-dead partner and not into a headset.
The hall remained empty.
Lyon advanced into the house with Alek and Markus on his heels. He watched with approval as Markus shoved the bodies down the stairs leading to the tunnel and closed the door behind him.
No reason to announce their arrival.
The house was quiet except for the soft tick of the antique grandfather clock that sat at one end of the hall.
Lyon pointed to the grand staircase and led the way.
He knew the house well, not only from the times he’d visited as a child but because of all the hours he’d spent here with Ivan after his father had been sent to prison. Ivan had been his surrogate father, helping him to perfect his chess game, discussing the business of the bratva, helping Lyon to formulate a strategy for taking it over.
He knew exactly where Ivan would be this time of night.
The second-floor landing split off in two directions. Several bedrooms were located to the right. Lyon had spent the night more than once when he’d had too much to drink.
To the left lay Ivan’s large library and study.
He went left with Markus and Alek on his heels, but when they turned the corner, Lyon was surprised to see two guards standing in front of the door to Ivan’s study.
They spotted Lyon, Alek, and Markus at the same time, and the moment seemed to slow as everyone reached for their guns.
But the guards were at a disadvantage: their weapons hadn’t been at the ready.
Lyon shot one of them in the chest three times and heard him fall. The other one fell at the same time, blood pouring from his neck, although Lyon didn’t know if it had been Markus or Alek who got him.
They advanced on the door to Ivan’s study, Alexander Glazunov’s balletThe Seasonsplaying softly from behind the closed door.
Lyon looked at Alek. “Watch the door.”
Alek shook his head. “You’re not going in there alone.”
Lyon put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Watch the door.”
He raised his weapon, put his hand on the knob, and opened the door.
43
He wasn’t surprised to find Ivan sitting behind the carved walnut desk at one end of the room, a glass of vodka in front of him. He wasn’t even surprised to find that his old friend didn’t have a weapon.
Not one Lyon could see anyway.
Ivan was a thinker, not a fighter. It was why he’d enlisted others to do the fighting for him, making optimal use of his best tool — his mind — while everyone else spilled blood.
Lyon shoved the door closed behind him and entered the room.
Ivan studied him, and Lyon wondered if he was imagining the pride he thought he saw in Ivan’s eyes.
“I suppose this is where you say checkmate,” Ivan said.
Lyon stopped in front of his desk, his weapon pointed at Ivan’s chest. “Perhaps I’ll just send you flowers.”
Ivan laughed. “You were always far wittier than you were given credit for.”
“And you were clearly far more traitorous,” Lyon said.
