Then the first shot cracks through the yard. The metal wall beside me sparks, and everything moves at once.
Viktor shoves me down behind a burned-out truck as more shots tear through the air. Men shout. Glass breaks. Someone fires back from the left. The yard becomes noise, hard and sharp, bullets hitting metal, concrete, wood.
I pull my gun and move low along the truck.
There are at least two shooters.
No, three. One near the containers. One high, maybe on the service platform. One by the fence line.
This was not only a warehouse hit. This was a trap.
A good one.
I should feel anger first. I usually do. Anger makes things clean. But as I crouch behind twisted metal with bullets tearing through the yard, the first clear thought in my mind is not about my father. Not Dmitri. Not territory. Not the men firing at me.
Anya.
The thought comes so fast it nearly disorients me.
Anya at breakfast, angry because I told her she could not leave.
Anya in my shirt.
Anya asking if this was safe.
Anya inside my house, behind gates that suddenly do not feel high enough.
For the first time in my life, fear hits before calculation.
Not for myself. For her.
If this is a trap for me, there may be another move happening somewhere else.
My hand tightens around the gun. “Call the house,” I tell Viktor.
He’s already doing it.
Another shot strikes the truck. Metal shrieks. I move on instinct, rising just enough to fire toward the service platform. Theshooter ducks. I see movement near the containers and fire twice more. Someone curses. A body drops behind the corner, not dead, but hit.
Viktor shouts into the phone, “Lock down the house. No one enters. No one leaves. Put two men outside her door.”
The words barely register before another shooter moves. Too close.
A man comes around the rear of the truck with a pistol raised. I shoot first. He falls hard onto the wet concrete, weapon skidding from his hand.
“Left!” Viktor shouts.
I roll behind a stack of crates as bullets chew into the truck where I was a second ago. One of my men fires from behind a forklift. Another goes down near the gate, hit in the leg, dragging himself back while swearing.
The shooter on the platform rises again. This time I’m ready. I fire once, and he drops out of sight.
The yard rings in the aftermath. My ears buzz. Smoke moves slowly over the concrete. Men shout positions. Someone groans in pain. The last shooter runs toward the fence, but Viktor’s men cut him off before he reaches it. Two shots. Then silence.
Viktor comes back to me, phone still in hand. “The house is secure,” he says. “She is inside.”
I stare at him. “Anya?”
“Yes. She’s in the library with Nina and two guards outside. No breach.”