Chapter 49

49

“Package secured, but Korolov’s in the wind.” Fox’s voice was gruff over the comms.

Freya was with Fox. The words hit like a physical blow, making him stumble.

“Copy, Fox.” Abe waited, but no reply. He tapped the button in his ear in frustration. Too much shit going on.

He climbed, sweeping his weapon up, then down. The groans from his target on the first floor were getting weaker, but he wasn’t taking chances.

Fox had her, and Fox would get her out. That’s what mattered. Relief burned through his veins, even knowing they weren’t clear yet.

Korolov’s in the wind.

Loose. Dangerous.

His heartbeat pounded in his head, the only sound besides his careful footsteps, the air growing damper as he climbed. Dust was thick on the rails, the stairs forgotten, abandoned for whatever monstrous elevator Korolov had likely installed. Thin strips of light from landing windows did little to break the gloom.

A cramp shot through his calf. He ignored it, clearing the second-floor landing. One more to go.

Air stirred above him.

The landing door whispered on well-oiled hinges.

Abe flattened himself against the wall and raised his weapon. His pulse thundered, but his hands were steady.

Footsteps scuffing on the bare stone.

Abe swung out to face whoever was coming down.

Korolov.

The weapons dealer halted. Blood soaked his right arm and dripped steadily to the bare steps. The knife he held reflected dim light.

“Korolov. Put the knife down.”

A grin split Korolov’s face. “I was just about to suggest the same thing.”

“You’re hurt. Let me get you medical attention.”

“I don’t want your fucking medical attention, you meddling bastard.” The words came through gritted teeth.

Abe’s finger tensed on the trigger. “You lost Freya?”

Korolov’s sneer didn’t reach his eyes. “Your team is impressive, Mr. Knight. I could pay you handsomely for your services. Far more than you’re being paid now.”

“Not everything is about money.”

A rich chuckle. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. Everything is about money.” Korolov’s voice dropped, almost intimate. “You’ll find that out soon enough. Some of us are just more enlightened than others, Mr. Knight.”

Korolov took a measured step forward, but Abe didn’t budge, his stance firm. “Stay right where you are,” his voice rumbled, his eyes locked on Korolov.

A slight head shake. Korolov’s eyes flicked over Abe’s shoulder. A split-second glance. Instinct flared.

Too late.

As Abe spun, weapon raised, gunshot boomed. The bullet punched through his unprotected upper arm, the impact throwing him sideways. Agony licked his ribs. One of Korolov’s men—sallow-skinned, thin-faced—had crept up the stairs.

Abe ground his teeth. Pain is just information.

Korolov moved like lightning. Glass exploded outward as he used his uninjured elbow to smash through the landing window. Abe staggered but kept moving, sheer will blotting out everything but his target.

He brought his weapon up fast. Korolov was already halfway out the fucking window.

The shot went low. Not center mass, but Korolov’s thigh.

A choking grunt of pain. A stumble. But Korolov didn’t stop—freedom was one jump away.

A long shadow rushed up the stair wall.

Abe pivoted through white-hot pain. The second man charged, gun raised—all aggression, no finesse. A thug playing soldier. Abe fired again, his shot precise—just below the sternum. The man jerked but didn’t drop.

Body armor.

Wood exploded beside Abe’s head as the man’s return shot shredded the banister. Splinters stabbed his face.

Too fucking close.

Abe shifted stance, anticipating. The man barreled into him, the impact sending them both crashing onto the stairs.

Abe seized the man’s gun hand, wrenching it upward, his thumb crushing a pressure point between his assailant’s thumb and forefinger. The weapon fell, smashing to the steps. Using his weight, Abe twisted on top, driving a sharp elbow into the man’s diaphragm with surgical precision. The thug bucked under him, wheezing, fighting for air that wouldn’t come.

Time to finish this.

Two hammer-fist strikes just behind the ear. The man went limp with a groan. Abe snatched the fallen weapon as he pushed to his feet.

Clear left. Clear right.

But the window gaped empty, glass teeth glinting in the frame. Korolov was gone.

Abe lurched to the opening. Two stories below, Korolov was already struggling upright. The bastard had found the one patch of soft grass to land on.

Rotor wash fractured the night, and a helicopter materialized from the darkness, running lights pulsing as it descended toward the garden.

Of course. Korolov had an extraction plan.

Abe steadied his wounded arm against the frame, blinking sweat from his eyes. Exhale. Squeeze.

Two shots. The first kicked up turf at Korolov’s feet. The second pinged off the chopper’s landing gear.

Fuck. Not enough.

A figure jumped from the helicopter, hauling Korolov the last few faltering steps into the cabin. The rotors were already spinning faster, lifting the craft skyward.

Abe watched his target vanish into the night, frustration drowning out the torment in his upper arm.

But there was no time for regret.

Fox. Freya. They needed him.