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Katya’s eyes ask for permission. “He can take a car and whatever cash he needs,” I say.

Seconds later, we watch the back window slide open, and three bodies step in. Two are obviously men. One is dressed in all black, mid-twenties, walks like a trained soldier. The other man is in street clothes and a vest. I notice his arm tattoo—it’s a hammerhead shark. And it’s in the same style as my own octopus. He’s got good taste. The last body is a woman. No, correction—“She’s a fucking child.” I whip my head over at Katya.

“She’s in her twenties. Back off.”

The woman pauses, gives me the finger in one of the cameras, and continues to move through the house. The three of them move silently, wraiths on the prowl.

The guards on patrol appear on the screen. I squint, trying to decipher which one of Mikhail’s he is. Dennis, maybe. “There’s a hostile in the next hallway,” Katya says. The woman steps forward and out of frame. I see Dennis drop to the floor. The tattoo guy shoots one of Mikhail’s men with a silencer.

Katya informs the team, “Three more hostiles in the living room.”

They move like ninjas through the hallway, but it’s the stairs that prove to be a problem. The man in black steps on something, and all of Mikhail’s men jump to their feet. Mikhail’s men were trained by former KGB or other mercenary groups. There’s no way these three will be able to take them.

And never have I been happier to be proven wrong.

The woman goes in first, moving fast and snapping the legs of one of the men. Arms, legs, throat—each movement is precise and designed for pain. Another guy grabs her from behind and slams her to the floor. He stomps on her leg, but the man in black puts the assailant in a chokehold, restraining him until the woman gets back up and breaks both of his arms. But she doesn’t put any weight on her leg. The hammerhead shark guy is beating the hell out of one of the men behind a couch. The camera angle makes it hard to see.

And within forty-five seconds, all of Mikhail’s men are out cold.

The hammerhead shark guy raises his gun, but the woman puts her hand on his shoulder. I can hear her voice through the phone. “Wait until the kid is out of the building.”

Well, I appreciate her compassion. She moves a painting off the wall to expose a panel—something Mikhail’s men never thought about.

“I need you to talk to the victims.” She hooks her phone to the panel.

Katya hands me the phone. “Go ahead.”

“Nadia, are you there?”

There’s a sob and crackle of static. “Uncle Dimitri?”

Oh thank God. “Ian. I need you to open the door so my friends can come get you.”

“Momma... She’s cold.”

Katya closes her eyes and exhales. “Shit. I’m so sorry.” She reaches for me and squeezes my arm.

Nadia’s fight is over, but my son still needs to live. “Ian, I need you to type in the code.”

He’s sobbing, hiccupping, crying. “No.”

“I need you to try.”

“No,” he cries louder.

Alana raises her hand. “Ask him why.”

“Why can’t you type in the code?”

“Two more tries,” he sobs.

Katya squeezes my arm tighter. “Is there a kill switch?”

Fuck my brother’s paranoia. “There are five chances to enter the code before it sucks the oxygen out of the room.”

“That’s the worst fucking panic room I’ve ever heard of.”

“It’s designed to keep people trapped in as well as safe.”