Page 152 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

A round punches through the glass panel ahead. Roman yanks the tech behind the half-built counter before the tablet drops.

Dima fires twice down the corridor. A man drops behind a service cart.

“Left side clear,” Dima says, moving again.

Ilya’s team blocks the loading bay. Roman keeps the exit line open with a gun in one hand and pressure on the wounded man’s shoulder with the other.

“Antonov,” Roman calls. “Exit is yours.”

I keep moving.

Cara’s voice cuts through the wire, tight but clear. “Patrick, let go of my arm.”

Patrick answers too fast. “Then stop trying to get us both killed.”

Our maintenance guard comes on from the service bend, his voice flat. “I have visual. Patrick has her halfway through the service hall. Two Oak and Tron men above them.”

A burst of static cuts through his next breath.

“Correction,” he says. “Three.”

I hit the turn at the end of the corridor. Ahead, the narrow hall runs past half-installed cabinets, stacked chairs, and plastic sheeting taped over the far doorway. Above the cabinets, a short service gallery sits behind a metal rail and disappears toward the private lift.

Patrick has one arm locked around Cara and has stalled in the middle of the hall, caught between my side and the gallery.

Two armed men stand at the rail above him, guns angled down. A third shadow steps into the gallery light.

Viktor Morozov stands on the gallery in a dark overcoat, one bare hand resting on the rail, the other low at his side.

Patrick sees him at the same time I do and jerks Cara closer. My gun comes up, then stops. Bad angles. Glass everywhere. Cara caught between Patrick, Morozov’s men, and me.

Dima reaches my shoulder, breathing hard, and says, “No shot without hitting her.”

“I know,” I say, and every part of me hates that I do.

“I can trade,” Patrick calls up, his voice cracking around the words.

Morozov doesn’t answer.

Patrick shouts again, “I can give Volkov enough to bury you.” The threat cracks halfway through and turns into pleading.

Cara sees me. Through the wire, she says, “Dmitri.”

Morozov lifts one hand. Patrick turns to Cara, and something in his face breaks.

“Cara,” he says, and for one rotten second, he sounds like her brother.

Then he drags her tight against him and hooks one arm across her chest. She twists hard, chin up, fighting for every inch he takes.

“You need me,” Patrick calls up, his voice cracking.

Morozov rests one hand on the upper gallery rail. “I needed you silent.”

Cara’s eyes flick toward the corridor where I stand. My weapon comes up. Dima reaches the corner ahead of me and lifts one hand.

Stop.

I stop because he can see the angle before I can. Morozov stands above the service corridor, but Cara is below him, Patrick’s arm is across her. One bad shot gives Morozov’s men a reason to fire down into her.