Page 69 of Tattooed Heart

“Clear,” Aleksandr announces after checking the bodies.

I approach the door the guards were protecting. It is heavy steel with an industrial-grade lock. “Viktor, we need tools.”

Within minutes, Viktor arrives with the equipment. The lock surrenders to our efforts and the door swings open to reveal a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

“I go first,” I demand, my voice leaving no room for argument.

“I’ll go with Dimitri. The rest of you secure the perimeter,” Aleksandr commands.

The stairwell is tight, forcing us to descend into a single file. My gun remains aimed ahead, ready for any threat. The air grows colder and damper with each step. The warehouse'sbasement stretches out before us, a maze of concrete pillars and abandoned equipment.

Aleksandr and I stalk through the basement level, checking every room and every corner. Where would Morozov take her? What is his plan?

The answer comes in the form of gunfire erupting from the far end of the basement. I sprint toward the sound, abandoning all pretense of stealth.

I burst into a large open area that once served as storage. Three of my men are engaged in fierce combat with Morozov's guards. Bodies already litter the ground.

I join the fray without hesitation, my bullets finding their marks with deadly precision. One by one, Morozov's men fall. But they buy their boss time.

“There's another level below,” one of my wounded men gasps, pointing toward a metal trapdoor. “They went down there.”

I nod once, then turn to Aleksandr. “I'm going after Morozov.”

“Not alone,” Aleksandr protests.

“Yes, alone.” My tone brooks no argument. “This is between me and him now.”

Before he can respond, I cross to the trapdoor and heave it open. Another set of stairs, cruder than the first, disappears into darkness. I descend without hesitation, my gun leading the way.

The air turns thick with moisture and the unmistakable scent of blood. My night vision goggles reveal a series of small chambers, likely used for storage in the past. Most stand empty, their doors hanging open on rusted hinges.

A guard appears from an adjacent room. I take a grazing hit to my shoulder, but adrenaline dulls the pain to nothing more than an irritating burn. I return fire, watching my opponent slump against the wall.

Silence descends once more. I pause, listening intently. A faint sound reaches my ears. Voices are coming from the furthest chamber.

I approach cautiously, my gun held ready. The door to the final room stands slightly ajar, a thin strip of light spilling onto the concrete floor. I position myself beside the frame, listening.

“...thought you were smarter than this.” It is Sandy's voice, though strained with fear and exhaustion.

“Smart enough to lure your attack dog here.” Morozov's reply is smug and confident.

I take a slow, steady breath. Then I kick the door open and enter in one fluid motion.

And that's when I see her. It instantly makes my rage intensify to a calculated fury more dangerous than any blind anger.

Sandy is on her knees in the center of a cell in the small room, her hands bound behind her back. Her face is bruised, a trickle of blood running from her split lip. But her eyes burn with an unbroken spirit as they meet mine.

Behind her stands Morozov, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressing a gun against her temple. His face splits into a cruel smile when he sees me.

“You're too late,” Morozov sneers, pressing the barrel harder against Sandy's skin. “I already marked her. Just like you marked my brother for death.”

23

SANDY

Time doesn’t just slow. It shatters.

One second, I’m on my knees, Morozov's hand tangled in my hair, his gun pressing into the soft skin of my temple. And next, I’m drowning in Dimitri's eyes.

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