Page 132 of Brutal Reign
We coordinate our approach carefully. I draw a tactical knife from my belt while Roman provides cover fire. When the gunman on the left leans out to return fire, I’m ready.
The blade finds its mark in his throat before he can make a sound. Roman takes his target with a suppressed double-tap that echoes quietly in the concrete stairwell.
“One more floor,” I pant. Hope’s life depends on reaching that roof.
The last two guards have positioned themselves at the roof access door, and they open fire the moment we appear on the landing. We’re forced to dive behind a concrete barrier, bullets chipping away at our cover.
“I’m empty,” Roman calls out, dropping the spent clip. “Cover me while I reload!”
I lean out from behind the barrier and empty my entire clip in controlled bursts, forcing both gunmen to duck. The moment Roman slaps a fresh magazine home, he returns fire while I reload with shaking hands.
“Radio check,” Roman says quickly during a lull. “Anyone got eyes on Hope?”
“She’s on the roof with Chen,” Eva confirms.
“We end this now,” I tell Roman. “You go right. I’ll take left. Crossfire on three.”
Roman nods, and we execute the maneuver with the coordination that comes from years of fighting together. Both assholes go down under our combined assault, their bodies hitting the concrete with dull thuds.
I’ve barely caught my breath when Vadim’s voice comes through. “I have the helicopter in my crosshairs. Should I take the shot?”
My brain immediately does the math, and I think about the aircraft spinning out of control, crashing into the area where Hope is standing. “No! Hope is on that roof. Do not shoot. Repeat: do not shoot.”
“Copy that.”
Heavy footsteps echo up the stairwell. It’s our backup finally arriving. But we can’t wait. Roman and I barrel forward through the rooftop door, guns drawn. Blood and adrenaline are pumping hard through my veins.
The rooftop is empty. When I look up, a helicopter is rising into the darkness.
“Hope!” I roar, the sound tearing from my throat. The aircraft is already too far, its lights blinking like distant stars as it carries my wife away from me.
Roman staggers up beside me, blood seeping through a graze on his shoulder. “Fuck. We were so close.”
Close. The word twists like a razor in my chest, a reminder of how completely I failed her.
Something breaks inside me. I slam my fist into the rooftop door, metal denting under the impact. “I should have seen this coming! I should have?—”
But the words aren’t enough. Nothing is enough. I drive my fist into the door again and again, until my knuckles split and blood streaks the metal. “FUCK!” The roar, raw and animalistic, tears from my throat. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”
My vision blurs with rage and something that feels like despair. She trusted me. Hope put her life in my hands, and I let them take her.
My legs give out, and I drop to one knee, gasping for air. The weight of it all crushes down on me until I can barely breathe.
Roman doesn’t try to stop me; he stands there, watching, until my rage exhausts itself and I’m leaning my forehead against the door.
“Pavel,” he finally says, his tone gentler than usual. “Look at me, brother. Look at me.”
I lift my head, chest heaving.
“Breaking your hands on that door won’t bring her back. Hope is counting on you.”
I close my eyes, forcing the panic down layer by layer. He’s right. Hope needs the strategist, the killer who’s survived two decades of war. Not the man having a temper tantrum.
As Roman tells our backup to stand down, I force myself to my feet, wipe blood from my knuckles, and give Roman a nod.
“Eva, can you track that helicopter with your drone?”
“On it,” she responds. “I’ve got eyes on the aircraft, maintaining distance so they don’t spot us.”
