Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
That’s the moment the first shots hit, but they’re not ours. Belov has shooters posted, and he doesn’t hesitate. He fires toward the side street where he thinks the threat is coming from. He wants to pin us before we can get close. His men fan out and start moving with purpose.
He’s good, but not good enough.
Sergei leans forward. “Now.”
I drive straight at the front barricade.
Belov’s men aren’t expecting that. They’re expecting us to come in cautiously, to test the perimeter, to hesitate because there are civilians and guests. They’re expecting a standoff. They’re expecting diplomacy.
I don’t slow. The car hits the first barrier and the metal scrapes under the tires. A guard jumps aside at the last possible second. The second guard tries to raise his gun. Sergei leans out the window and puts him down with two clean shots before the man can fire.
The sound of gunfire triggers panic inside. I can see silhouettes shifting behind the windows and people turning toward exits. I can see the illusion of a wedding collapsing into exactly what it always was: a staged event built on blood.
I slam the car to a stop at an angle that gives us cover.
The air smells like salt and oil and exhaust. My pulse is steady. My mind is not.
“Stay tight,” Sergei tells the men behind us over comms. “Do not spray rounds. You fire only when you have a target. Confirm before you pull the trigger.”
Everyone answers him. Everyone knows Sergei’s discipline is the only way we’ll survive long enough to reach her.
I step out and move fast, using the car as a shield. Bullets crack into the metal, sharp and close. One hits the windshield and the glass spiderwebs across the surface. Another pings off the doorframe near my shoulder. Belov’s men are already repositioning, trying to create crossfire.
I don’t give them time. I take the first man down with a shot to the throat. He drops without a sound. The second man tries to duck behind a concrete post. I put one round into his chest, then one into his head when he tries to recover.
My men move behind me in tight formation. They don’t bunch up. They don’t hesitate. They keep the angles covered.
The side entrance bursts open across the lot as Misha’s team hits it. Smoke blooms from the doorway, not from fire, but from a canister meant to disrupt sightlines. It’s not for theatrics. It’s for speed.
Belov’s men split instantly, some rushing toward the side entrance, some holding the front. They’re trying to keep us out. They’re trying to keep the guests contained. They’re trying to keep the bride secure.
They’re failing.
A scream slices through the air from inside, then another. I hear the sound of chairs scraping and footsteps running. I hear glass shatter. The wedding is turning into a stampede.
Sergei stays close to my shoulder. “We need to get inside before they move her.”
“Let’s go,” I answer.
Belov’s men fire again. One of my shooters goes down near the front barrier, hit in the side. He collapses hard, and the man behind him drags him back without breaking formation. No one stops. No one panics. The dead weight gets moved and the line keeps advancing.
I reach the front doors covered in white fabric and flowers. The sight makes something cold and vicious settle behind my ribs. Mikhail dressed up his violence in lace. I rip the door open hard enough that the fabric tears.
The sound on the other side reaches me instantly. Hundreds of panicked voices. Screams. Shouts. The echo of gunfire in a large enclosed space. The smell of perfume mixing with sweat, spilled alcohol, smoke, and blood.
The interior is exactly what I expected. A long aisle is set up down the center. Tables are arranged along the sides with white linens and expensive centerpieces. Men in suits are ducking behind chairs. Women are literally clutching their pearls and crying. Some are crawling under tables. Some are frozen, too shocked to move.
Belov’s security teams are posted at key points, but they’re scrambling now, caught between stopping us and controlling a crowd that has become a liability.
I step inside and the world narrows. My gun stays up. My eyes move fast. I shoot only at Mikhail’s men. I’m careful about that. I know what I came to do.
A guard pops up behind a table with his weapon raised. I put him down. Another tries to rush the aisle. Sergei takes him out before he makes three steps. A third man fires blindly toward the door, hitting nothing but air. One of my men drops him easily.
People scream louder as the bodies fall. They push toward exits, tripping over each other. A woman in a red dress falls and is nearly trampled. One of Grinkov’s men grabs her and yanks her upright, not because he cares about her, but because he wants the crowd moving in a direction that clears his line of sight.