Page 154 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

DMITRI

Cara doesn’t reach for Patrick.

That’s the first thing I understand when I pull her behind the half-built counter and put my body between her and the gallery.

Patrick lies ten feet away, one hand moving across the floor. His fingers open and close around nothing. His eyes glaze over, and blood spreads dark under his body.

Cara stares at him with all the color gone from her face. Her mouth stays open as if the next breath can’t find its way in. Both hands clasp in front of her stomach, tight enough to turn her knuckles white.

“Oh, God,” she says, swaying once. “No. No, Patrick. What have you done?”

I catch her before her knees give. Her hair has come loose from its pins and sticks to her cheek. I tuck it back with my fingers and hold her against me.

For one raw second, I want to kiss her mouth and make her forget Patrick, this room, and every bloody thing this day has taken from her.

Then I think of Mikhail and hold her tighter. Her body shakes against mine.

“It’s over, Cara,” I say near her ear. “You’re safe. Mikhail is safe.”

Mikhail’s name reaches her. Her shaking stops all at once. She looks at me with wide eyes and a face emptied by shock, then gives a small nod.

“Can you stand?” I ask, keeping one arm around her waist.

Cara swallows hard and nods again. I ease her behind the desk, but I keep my hand near her shoulder.

All around us, Volkov men take positions. Dima fires up at the gallery. Ilya’s team pushes in from the loading bay. Abramov’s men close the lobby with short orders, weapons angled down, and no one fires unless they have a clean line.

Vera grabs the receptionist first and shoves her behind the counter. Two admin workers and a contractor follow, crawling low while she points them away from the open floor. Near the service lift, our maintenance guard drives his cart across the corridor entrance. Metal bangs against the wall, and the cart blocks the straight shot from the gallery into the service hall.

Roman checks the wounded Volkov guard behind the half-built counter, plants one boot against a fallen crate, and shouts at a worker to keep his head down.

Maksim’s voice comes through the comms, calm enough to chill every man listening. “I want Morozov alive. No speeches, no improvisation, no revenge in the hallway.”

I hear the warning for what it is. This hotel has bodies, cameras, workers, and exits we haven’t owned long enough. If Morozov dies here, I get one corpse and lose the machine behind him.

I turn Cara toward Vera. “Keep her down.”

Vera moves fast, one hand at Cara’s shoulder, the other on her gun. She pulls Cara lower behind the desk and puts herself between Cara and the open floor.

“Dima,” I say. “Take him breathing.”

Above us, Morozov’s men drag him back from the rail toward the private lift. Dima hits the stairs with two men behind him, moving for the gallery level. Ilya’s team blocks the service lift below. No one goes down, and no one comes up.

Kirill cuts through the comms. “Private lift override frozen. He’s not leaving that way.”

Yuri comes right behind him. “Hotel admin system is ours.”

“Plain,” I snap.

Kirill answers fast. “Every file they opened is copied. If they try to erase the system, we keep the proof.”

Good.

Yuri and Kirill planted watchers in the admin file. Morozov’s people opened the lift, the schedule, and the wallet check. Now every move leaves a copy.

Dima reaches the upper rail. A guard turns on him. Dima catches the man’s wrist, slams it against the railing, and takes the gun before it clatters to the floor. His knee drives into the man’s ribs, and the guard folds with a broken sound.

A second guard fires wildly. One of Ilya’s men catches him from the lower stair angle and puts him down before he gets another shot.