Page 86 of Imperfect Desires

I shove him hard into the wall, my gun digging deeper into his flesh. “Don’t play stupid. Alina Makarova. Where is she?”

“I—I don’t know who that is—”

Wrong answer.

I drive the butt of the gun into his ribs. He crumples slightly, wheezing, but I don’t let him fall.

I grab him by the collar and lift.

“Try again,” I whisper. “Or I start taking pieces off until you remember.”

His eyes dart to the pinned corpse beside him, blood dripping from Anton’s blade.

He starts talking fast. “Back wing—level three. End of the corridor. Reinforced door. Always locked. Only Mendes has the access key.”

Bingo.

I step back, lowering my weapon—but my eyes don’t soften. “How many guards?”

“At least six in the lower wing. But—but the elite are stationed near her room. Heavy weapons. Kevlar. They don’t answer to anyone but Mendes.”

I nod once.

Then I pistol-whip him across the temple and he drops like a rock. Anton yanks his knife free from the other guard with a single, wet pull. Blood sprays as we move ahead.

The back wing. Level three. That's where Alina is being holed up.

"I'm coming,moya lyubov''

The moment we descend toward the back wing, everything changes. The air gets colder and feels tighter. The silence that carried us this far is shattered by tension you can feel in your bones. This is no longer a house—it’s a fortress.

And these men? Not like the others.

We don’t even see the first one—we feel him. A blur of motion from the left, followed by the thunder of a suppressed weapon. One of my men drops to a knee, wounded but alive. Anton spins, firing twice. One body crumples behind a support beam.

Then it begins.

Gunfire erupts like thunder in a canyon.

It’s chaos—fast, loud, brutal.

Anton’s men peel off, splitting into pairs to counter the flanking guards. Shouts echo from somewhere above. Reinforcements. Radio calls. This place is wired.

But I’m not here to run.

I’m here to end this.

A shadow moves ahead. Another elite. Larger than the rest, armored like he’s expecting war. He rushes me with a blade. Stupid mistake.

I duck under the first swing and slam my forearm into his throat, twisting with force. He stumbles, choking—but I don’t stop. I sweep his legs out and stomp his chest as he hits the floor.

His ribs crack. He doesn’t get up.

Three more emerge from the side corridor—tactical gear, full helmets, serious muscle.

They start firing.

I dive behind a crate, bullets splintering the wall near my head. I pull a flashbang from my vest and toss it down the hall.

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