Page 75 of Chain Me

“The drivers,” Alexi says grimly, dropping his box. “They made contact.”

Dmitri’s already moving toward the loading bay entrance. “We go now, or we don’t go at all.”

The kitchen workers look up in confusion as alarms begin blaring throughout the compound. Red lights flash along thewarehouse exterior, and I can hear vehicle engines starting up somewhere beyond the main building.

“Move.” Nikolai draws his weapon, leading us through the loading doors into the warehouse interior. “Erik, the truck.”

I pull the detonator from my vest, thumb hovering over the trigger. The explosives Alexi rigged will turn our delivery truck into a spectacular distraction—fire and smoke to draw every guard away from where they are.

“Three seconds,” I call out, following my brothers into the house.

The kitchen doors swing shut behind us as alarms shriek through the compound. Stainless steel surfaces gleam under harsh fluorescent lights, the smell of onions and garlic thick in the air. Two cooks freeze mid-chop, knives suspended over cutting boards.

“Keep working,” Nikolai orders, weapon visible but not aimed. “Pretend we’re not here.”

The older cook nods frantically, resuming his prep work with shaking hands. His younger colleague drops her knife entirely, backing toward the walk-in freezer.

“Service entrance to the main house?” I ask.

She points toward a narrow hallway beyond the prep stations. “Through there. But the family?—”

“Don’t worry about the family.” Dmitri moves past her, checking corners. “Worry about staying quiet.”

I trigger the detonator.

The explosion rocks the entire estate, rattling pots hanging from overhead racks. Through the kitchen windows, orange light flickers against the glass—our truck burning bright in the loading bay. Shouts multiply outside as guards rush toward the flames.

“That bought us maybe ten minutes,” Alexi says, pulling up building schematics on his phone. “Katarina’s room should be second floor, east wing.”

The service hallway stretches ahead of us, lined with storage closets and utility panels. Bare bulbs cast harsh shadows, and our footsteps echo off tile floors despite our efforts to move quietly.

“Staff quarters,” Nikolai identifies, checking doors as we pass. Empty rooms, unmade beds, personal belongings scattered on nightstands. “We’re in the wrong section.”

I push forward, tension coiling in my chest. Every second brings Igor closer to discovering our breach. The main house entrance appears ahead—a heavy wooden door marked with warnings about unauthorized entry.

Alexi presses his ear to the wood. “Voices. At least three people, maybe four.”

“Guards?” Dmitri asks.

“Hard to tell. Could be household staff.” He tests the handle carefully. “Locked, but not deadbolted.”

Through the door, I can hear rapid footsteps on marble floors. Someone barks orders to check all entrances and secure the perimeter. Igor’s voice cuts through the chaos, demanding status reports from every guard station.

“They know we’re here,” I mutter. “Full alert.”

“On three,” Nikolai orders.

On three, we burst through the door.

The ornate foyer spreads before us—polished marble floors, crystal chandeliers, oil paintings worth more than most people’s houses. Four figures scatter like startled birds: an elderly woman clutching a feather duster, two maids in black uniforms, and a butler frozen mid-stride with a silver tray.

Not guards. Staff.

“Down on the floor,” Dmitri commands, his weapon sweeping across the group. “Hands where we can see them.”

The butler drops his tray with a crash that echoes through the high-ceilinged space. Silver spoons scatter across the marble, ringing like broken bells. The elderly woman whimpers, pressing herself against an antique side table.

“Please,” the butler stammers in heavily accented English. “We know nothing. We see nothing.”

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