Page 37 of Crimson Curse
Lucien raises his hand in what appears to be a casual gesture, adjusting his shirt cuff, but I recognize the signal for what it is, the command his guards have been waiting for. Aroundthe room, twelve men shift into attack positions, their weapons sliding from concealment.
He thinks he has me trapped. He thinks I walked into his web like a fly drawn to honey, vulnerable and unprepared. What he doesn’t know is that I have spent weeks preparing for this moment, placing pieces on the board while he assumed himself the only player.
The moles I planted in his outer circle move first. Artyom, tall and silent, stands among the ring of guards. His gun pivots, and two of Lucien's men collapse before they even realize the betrayal. Yavin, shorter but every bit as deadly, spins fast and drops the man on his right. The sharp crack of gunfire shatters the quiet. Then, the room erupts into chaos.
Glass explodes inward as Roman and Maksim open fire from their concealed positions, their rifles barking in rapid succession. Bullets slice through the air with deadly accuracy, finding their marks with the expertise of master marksmen. Bodies spin and drop, blood spraying across the floor in abstract patterns.
I move like the machine I have trained myself to be. My gun appears in my hand as if summoned by will alone. The first guard to target me learns his mistake in the final second of his life. My weapon barks twice, the double tap catching him in the center of his chest. He topples backward, his shot going wide, sparking off the concrete floor.
Another lunges from my right, thinking desperation might succeed where skill failed. I pivot on my heel and place a single round square in his chest. He falls without sound, his rifle clattering across the floor.
The air fills with the acrid scent of spilled blood. Muzzle flashes strobe like lightning. Men shout, scream, and curse in three different languages. The careful choreography of Lucien's entrance has devolved into a symphony of violence.
Lex muscles a steel drum into position between us and the remaining guards, turning forgotten machinery into mobile cover. Together we advance through the carnage, our weapons barking in rhythm. He takes point, I cover our right flank, and we move like dancers who have rehearsed this deadly ballet a hundred times.
A guard breaks from cover near the shattered windows, trying to pinpoint our position. I track him smoothly and squeeze the trigger. The bullet takes him in the shoulder, spinning him around. Lex finishes what I started with a second shot that drops the man permanently.
Through the smoke and chaos, I catch sight of Lucien pressed against the far wall, his expensive suit torn and stained with blood. Three of his remaining guards form a protective screen around him, returning fire in desperate bursts. His hazel-green eyes find mine across the battlefield, and for the first time since I met him, I see genuine fear flickering in their depths.
Then the north doors burst open again. Viktor strides in with the swagger of a man who believes himself untouchable, flanked by six more soldiers. He fires immediately, his bullets forcing Lex and me to dive behind our makeshift barricade as rounds spark off steel and concrete. His grin is the same one I remember from childhood, cruel and mocking, far too certain of itself.
“Cousin,” Viktor calls across the chaos, his voice a rasp of delight and pain. “Did you think Lucien came without me? Did you believe I would miss this family reunion?”
I rise from cover, my weapon trained on Viktor. The shot is perfect, textbook in its execution. The bullet finds his shoulder, spinning him back with a grunt of surprised pain. Dark blood spreads across his shirt, and for a moment, I think I have him, that he will fall here and now and end this farce once and for all.
But one of his men drags Viktor back toward the exit. My cousin stumbles, clutching his wounded shoulder, but his eyes burn with undiminished hatred.
“This is not finished, Daniil!” he shouts over the gunfire, his voice raw with pain and fury. “This will never be finished between us!”
His men lay down suppressing fire, their rifles chattering in automatic bursts that force my snipers to take cover. The distraction buys Viktor the seconds he needs to escape, vanishing through the north doors like smoke in the wind. The rage that burns in my belly threatens to break loose and drive me in pursuit regardless of tactics or consequences. But I swallow it down, forcing discipline over desire. His time will come. Tonight belongs to Lucien.
I push through the remaining guards, each shot placed with unerring accuracy. They fall one after another until only silence and the stench of death remain. The hall looks like a slaughterhouse. Bodies are scattered across the floor in pools of rapidly cooling blood. Shattered glass glitters like diamonds in the emergency lighting that has kicked in automatically.
In the sudden quiet, I hear the sound I have been listening for, the scrape of expensive shoes against concrete, and the labored breathing of a wounded man trying to crawl away. Lucien's escape route leads toward the service corridor, where he no doubt has transportation waiting. But he moves slowly, favoringhis left side where glass from the exploding windows has found its mark. I follow the blood trail like a hunter tracking wounded prey.
The corridor hums with sterile fluorescent light. Lucien's blood marks his desperate path in crimson droplets on the gray floor. He stumbles, attempting to limp toward the service exit where his escape waits.
I raise my gun and fire deliberately, two rounds into his legs. The shots echo off the concrete walls like thunder. He screams a raw, animalistic sound stripped of all pretense and refinement. His body collapses against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
When I reach him, he props himself up with one trembling arm. Those hazel-green eyes still burn with malice, unrepentant even in defeat. His lips work soundlessly, trying to form words. Perhaps another insult about Naomi. Perhaps another cruel reference to Sasha's death. But I don’t give him the chance to poison the air with his voice.
I crouch beside him, drawing the knife I have carried for five years. The steel gleams under the harsh light, perfectly maintained and sharp. This blade has waited for this moment, dreamed of this throat, and hungered for this blood.
“This is for Sasha,” I whisper, my voice steady despite the emotions churning beneath the surface. “And for everything you tried to take from me and Naomi.”
His lips part, but before sound can escape, I slice clean across his throat with one fluid motion. Blood surges hot and quick, painting the walls in arterial sprays. His eyes widen with surprise and outrage, as if he never truly believed his end wouldcome from my hand. The light fades from them slowly, leaving only empty glass staring at nothing.
I wipe the blade clean on his suit, slide it back into its sheath, and stand. Five years of planning, waiting, and burning rage have culminated in this moment. Justice served cold, as my mother used to promise our enemies.
Lex approaches from the far end of the corridor, his weapon lowered but ready. He takes in the scene with professional detachment, then glances at me with approval in his gray-blue eyes.
“Viktor escaped,” he reports, his voice flat and factual. “Wounded but not finished.”
I breathe once, deep and steady, letting the adrenaline drain from my system. “Viktor runs because he believes I’ll follow. He forgets I only strike when I choose.”
We return to the main room where my surviving men are already at work. Bodies are catalogued, weapons secured, and evidence sanitized. Broken glass crunches under our feet like snow. Beyond the shattered windows, the Calumet River stretches wide and dark, indifferent to the violence that has stained its shores.
I walk to the corridor leading to the safe room. The electronic lock disengages at my approach. The door opens to reveal Naomi stepping out, pale but unshaken. Her warm brown eyes search my face, cataloguing the blood spatter on my suit and the tension still knotted in my shoulders. Relief softens her features when she confirms I am whole and breathing.
