Chapter 5 - Fire in the Warehouse"Ethan, what was that?" I asked, my voice catching in my throat as the acrid smell of burning gunpowder and smoke began to drift up through the ventilation shafts.
"We're breached," Ethan said, his voice entirely devoid of panic, operating on pure, cold survival instinct. He flicked the safety off his pistol with a sharp click. "Dante! Report!"
He tapped the earpiece communicator in his ear, but only static hissed back in response.
"The jammers are up," Ethan muttered under his breath. "They've cut our comms."
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my chest. I thought of the baby nestled safely inside me, thought of the ultrasound picture in my purse, and a fierce, primal terror took over. This wasn't a corporate boardroom dispute anymore. This was war, and we were trapped right in the middle of the kill zone.
"Ethan, you can't fight an entire tactical team by yourself," I whispered, rushing toward him as he moved to lock the heavy oak door.
"I am not going to fight them by myself," Ethan said, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me down behind the massive, bullet-resistant mahogany desk. He pulled a second concealed firearm from a desk drawer and shoved it into my hand. "Can you shoot?"
I stared down at the heavy black weapon in my palm, remembering the secret target-practice weekends Ethan used to drag me to upstate years ago, back when we were still partners.
"I remember," I swallowed hard, wrapping my fingers around the textured grip.
"Good," Ethan murmured, his dark eyes softening for a fraction of a second as he pressed a quick, fierce kiss to my forehead. "If anyone breaches this door who isn't Dante, you empty the magazine. Do you understand me?"
Before I could answer, heavy boots slammed against the metal stairs outside the hallway.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rounds punched through the wooden door in a devastating volley of gunfire, sending splinters flying across the office. Ethan didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee, raised his pistol, and fired three rapid shots back through the ruined door.
A muffled cry of pain echoed from the hallway, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the concrete floor.
"Clear the corridor!" a harsh voice shouted from outside, speaking fluent Russian with a thick, brutal accent.
Viktor’s men.
The realization hit me like a splash of ice water. This wasn't just a random hit squad. This was Viktor, the ruthless Bratva boss from Brighton Beach, moving to eradicate Ethan’s entire operation in one coordinated strike.
And they had picked the exact day I walked into the warehouse.
They knew I was here.
My blood ran cold. The photograph on Ethan’s desk wasn't just a warning—it was a tracking beacon. They had followed me straight to the sanctuary, using me to draw Ethan into a trap.
"Ethan," I called out over the ringing in my ears as another volley of bullets chewed through the wall panels. "They followed me! They knew I was coming here!"
Ethan paused, reloading his magazine with lightning speed. Instead of looking angry, his face turned terrifyingly blank.
"It doesn't matter how they got here," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a deadly register. "It only matters that they touch you over my dead body."
Heavy metallic clinking sounded in the hallway just outside the office door.
Flashbang.
"Cover your eyes!" Ethan roared, lunging backward.
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I clamped my eyes shut and buried my face against my knees just as a blinding, magnesium-white flash illuminated the room through my eyelids, accompanied by a deafening concussive blast that nearly ruptured my eardrums.
Through the roaring ringing in my ears, I heard the heavy oak door splinter into a thousand pieces as armed men in black tactical gear swarmed into the room.
