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Abramov’s voice comes through again. “Where are you? Do you have Misha?”

“No. Vera is with me, and we’re heading for his suite.”

Abramov falls silent, but the channel stays open.

I take Vera’s hand and lead her toward Misha’s door.

The guard beside Vera presses one hand to his earpiece. “Movement near the service stairs. Two men in medical jackets.”

“Hold this junction.” I point toward the family corridor. “No one gets past you.”

He takes position beside the wall and signals to another guard in the glass corridor.

Voices crowd the radio. Dmitri orders the lower stairs sealed. Dima reports blood near the pool passage. Abramov calls out doors opening under copied access codes.

“This took weeks to prepare,” I say into the radio.

I study plans for a living, yet Belov built one inside my own house while Vera, Misha, and my recovery took priority. He found the doors, copied the codes, and waited for the right night.

I should have seen it.

Vera pulls her hand from mine and runs around the corner before I can stop her. I force my pace. The wound beneath my shirt pulls tight, and my legs nearly fail on the next step.

A shot cracks through the corridor and strikes the stone behind me. I fire once toward the service arch, driving the shooter back, then keep moving. He wants me pinned here while Misha waits farther ahead. I need both of them alive.

Vera is making that harder.

“Vera, stop.”

She looks back once and keeps running.

A family-wing guard lies near the medical bay with blood running from his temple. His rifle is gone. The supply trolley stands crooked against the wall, and one wheel still turns. Someone has broken open a sealed bin and scattered packets of gauze across the floor.

I crouch beside the trolley and find a small signal device, a hospital security badge, and a torn freight label beneath the dressings.

Vera drops beside me and grabs the badge. “I know this name.”

She turns it toward the red light. The photograph shows a broad-faced man with close-cut hair.

“Konstantin Ryabov. He worked as a porter at the hospital.”

“Still employed?”

“No. He left eight months ago.” She points to the badge number. “His access should have been canceled the day he left.”

“The badge helped them pass as hospital staff,” I say. “It doesn’t explain who used your account or forged Yelena’s approval.”

“Someone inside the hospital,” Vera says.

“Or someone who stole their access.”

A shot cracks near the playroom.

Vera runs.

I follow with one hand pressed over my abdomen and the radio near my mouth. “Report.”

“At least five intruders,” Abramov answers. “Two entered with the medical delivery. A third came through the pool passage after the alarms failed. Two more may already be inside the family suite.”