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"Execute," I breathe into the comm.

The world explodes into violence and noise. Alpha team hits the front door with a battering ram that splinters the door like kindling, while Bravo comes through the north windows in a cascade of shattered glass and shouted orders. I kick in the rear door and step into chaos that unfolds with the terrible clarity of organized brutality.

The first man in the kitchen reaches for a pistol holstered beneath his arm, but he's drunk and slow, and I put two rounds through his center mass before his fingers find the grip. He staggers backward against the sink, crimson blossoming across his shirt like spilled wine, and slides to the floor with his cards still clutched in his left hand.

The second man has better reflexes. He overturns the table and dives behind it, his own weapon already in his hand and spitting fire in my direction. Bullets chew through the doorframe beside my head, launching shards of wood and glass flying like angry wasps.

I roll left and come up behind the kitchen island, using its bulk as cover while I assess angles and opportunities. The man behind the table is shouting something in Russian, probably calling for backup that will never come. Through the doorway that leads to the main room, I can hear the distinctive chatter of automatic weapons fire punctuated by screams and breaking furniture.

My men are earning their wages tonight.

I wait for the shooter to pause to reload, then vault over the island and put three rounds through the overturned table. The wood is thick but not thick enough to stop military-grade ammunition. The man's return fire dies abruptly, replaced by a wet gurgling sound that tells me everything I need to know about his current condition.

"Kitchen clear," I report into my radio, stepping over bodies that are already beginning to cool. "Find my fucking son!"

The hallway beyond the kitchen runs toward the front of the lodge, and I can see muzzle flashes lighting the main room like deadly fireworks. One of my men—Viktor, I think—has taken cover behind an overturned couch and is laying down suppressing fire while his partner advances on two Zharov soldiers who have barricaded themselves behind a massive stone fireplace.

The soldiers are trapped and they know it. Desperation makes them sloppy, and they expose themselves too long while trying to return fire. Viktor's partner takes them both down with a controlled burst that paints the stone hearth with arterial spray.

"Main room secure," Viktor's voice crackles through my earpiece. "Three down."

I count bodies in my head. Two outside, two in the kitchen, three in the main room. That leaves at least two unaccounted for, and one of them could be guarding my son.

"Upstairs clear," Stepan reports from somewhere above me. "No targets, no hostages."

That means Nikolai is still on the ground floor, probably in one of the back bedrooms I haven't cleared yet. I move deeper into the lodge, my rifle raised and ready, stepping over shell casings and pools of blood that reflect the overhead lights like dark mirrors.

The first bedroom is empty except for rumpled bedding and the lingering stench of unwashed bodies. The second contains nothing but hunting equipment and ammunition crates stacked against the far wall. But the third door is locked, and when I press my ear against the wood, I can hear something that makes my blood turn to ice in my veins.

Sobbing. Quiet and desperate and heartbreakingly familiar.

I step back and kick the door just below the handle. The lock mechanism tears free from the frame with a sound like breaking thunder, and the door swings open to reveal a scene that will live in my nightmares for whatever years I have left on this earth.

Nikolai sits bound to a wooden chair in the center of the room, his small hands tied behind his back with rope that has left red marks on his wrists. A gag made from torn fabric covers his mouth, but his eyes are wide and alert above it. When he sees me, those eyes fill with tears that spill down his cheeks like small rivers of relief.

He's alive. He's hurt and terrified and probably traumatized, but he's alive and breathing and looking at me like I'm every hero from every story anyone has ever told him.

"Batya," he tries to say through the gag, the word muffled but unmistakable.

I'm across the room in three strides, dropping my rifle and pulling out my knife to cut through the ropes that bind him. My hands are shaking—actually shaking—as I work theblade between the fibers, sawing through his restraints with movements that feel clumsy and desperate.

"It's okay," I tell him, my voice rougher than I intended. "Batya'shere.Batya'sgot you."

The ropes fall away, and I pull the gag from his mouth with fingers that are steadier than they have any right to be. Nikolai launches himself at me before I can even straighten up, his small arms wrapping around my neck with a strength that nearly knocks me backward.

He's crying now, great heaving sobs that shake his entire body. I hold him against my chest and feel something inside me that I didn't know was broken begin to heal itself.

"I want to go home," he whispers against my throat. "I want Mama. I want to go home,Batya."

"We're going home," I promise him, standing up with his weight settled against my shoulder. "Right now. We're going home."

I retrieve my rifle with my free hand and key my radio. "Package secured. All teams, prepare for extraction."

We're halfway to the front door when the last Zharov soldier makes his final mistake.

He comes out of nowhere—probably been hiding in a closet or under a bed like the coward he is—with a hunting knife raised above his head and murder in his eyes. He's screaming something in Russian about honor and blood debts, but all I hear is the sound of metal cutting through air toward my son.

The blade catches Nikolai across the shoulder before I can react, parting fabric and skin with surgical precision. My son cries out in pain and surprise, and I feel something fundamental snap inside my chest like an overstressed cable.