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“Flesh wound. Keep moving.”

Behind them, the heavy footsteps of pursuit echo through the corridors. Igor's men are regrouping, following our path. More shouts in Russian—they're coordinating, closing in from multiple angles.

“This way.” Katarina pulls us toward a heavy door. “The garage connects to the main drive. We can circle around to avoid the front entrance.”

Dmitri fires another controlled burst down the hallway we just vacated. “How many vehicles?”

“Enough.” Katarina places her thumb against the panel next to it. “My father's paranoid about security, but I've not been removed from access to all areas.”

The electronic lock disengages with a soft beep. The garage beyond is massive—concrete floors polished to a mirror shine, fluorescent lighting revealing row after row of expensive machinery. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, motorcycles that cost more than most people's houses.

“Choose fast.” Alexi grits his teeth as blood seeps through his fingers pressed against his shoulder.

More gunfire erupts behind us. Closer now. Igor's men have reached the service corridor.

“There.” I point to a black Ducati near the exit bay. “Two people, fast acceleration.”

“And the rest of us?” Dmitri's voice carries dry amusement even as he reloads his weapon.

Katarina's already moving toward a midnight-blue McLaren. “This one. Four seats, bulletproof glass.”

“The lady knows her cars,” Nikolai observes, following her.

The garage's main door begins rumbling open—triggered by the automatic system.

Alexi slides into the McLaren's passenger seat while Dmitri takes the wheel. Blood stains the leather, but Alexi's eyes remain sharp and focused.

“Keys?” Dmitri's hands hover over the steering column.

Katarina tosses him a set from a pegboard near the door.

I swing my leg over the Ducati. “Katarina, get on.”

She climbs behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist. Her breath is warm against my neck through the tactical gear.

“Ready?” I call to my brothers.

The McLaren's engine roars to life as I kick the Ducati into gear. The garage door finishes opening, revealing the curved driveway that leads to the estate's perimeter.

“Go!” I gun the motorcycle forward, Katarina's grip tightening around my waist.

We burst from the garage in formation—the McLaren beside us, Dmitri's hands steady on the wheel despite the chaos. The night air hits my face as we accelerate down the drive, headlights cutting through the darkness.

Muzzle flashes erupt from the estate's windows. The sharp crack of rifle fire splits the air, followed by the metallic ping of bullets striking pavement inches from our wheels.

“Left!” I shout, yanking the handlebars hard. The Ducati leans into the turn, tires screaming against the asphalt.

The McLaren follows Dmitri, taking the curve with effortless ease. More gunfire erupts behind us—Igor's men have reached the vehicles, engines revving as they give chase.

“Two cars following,” Nikolai's voice crackles through my earpiece. “Black SUVs.”

I glance in the side mirror. Headlights gaining fast, growing larger. The distinctive bulk of armored vehicles—Igor isn't taking chances.

“They're shooting!” Katarina's voice is tight against my ear.

Bullets spark off the road beside us. The McLaren's rear windshield spider-webs but holds—the bulletproof glass doing its job. Dmitri swerves right, then left, making us a harder target to hit.

The estate's main gate looms ahead, wrought iron barriers already sliding closed. Igor's final gambit—trap us inside his domain.