Page 32 of Salvation

“They’ll pay,” another voice interrupted. “They’ve got no choice. Not if they want the girl and the Russian back in one piece.”

My fingers tightened around the grip of my Glock, rage flaring hot and bright in my chest. The Russian. Yulia. My wife. These men had dared to take her, to threaten her. Had dared to put their hands on my daughter. The urge to burst through the door, to end them all in a hail of bullets, was nearly overwhelming.

Hawk’s hand on my shoulder brought me back, a silent reminder of the plan. Get to Yulia and Clover first. Everything else was secondary.

“Beast’s team is in position at the east stairwell.” Shield’s voice came through the comm. “Three more heat signatures on your floor, plus two smaller ones and one of an average-size male in another area, directly ahead and to the right of your position.”

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “Copy. Moving in.”

Cyclops took position beside me, his hand on the door handle. I nodded once, and he pulled it open just enough for us to slip through one by one.

The second floor was divided into what had once been offices, most walls now crumbling, doors hanging from broken hinges. Two men stood at the far end of the corridor, smoking cigarettes, their backs to us. A third sat in a folding chair outside what appeared to be an intact room, a shotgun balanced across his knees.

We moved silently, using the shadows and debris for cover. I signaled to Hawk to take the two smokers while Cyclops and I approached the guard with the shotgun. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands remained steady, my mind clear and cold as ice.

The guard never saw us coming. Cyclops moved first, a blur of controlled violence as he wrenched the shotgun away and drove his knife deep into the man’s thigh, severing the femoral artery. I clamped my hand over his mouth, muffling his scream as his life pumped out in rhythmic spurts. His eyes bulged with shock and pain, locking with mine for one terrible moment before glazing over.

At the end of the corridor, Hawk took down the two smokers with brutal efficiency -- a silenced shot to the back of the head for one, his knife across the throat of the other. Neither had time to raise an alarm.

“Clear,” Hawk whispered, already moving to join us.

The door the guard had been watching was reinforced, a new deadbolt installed in the old frame. Behind it, I could hear muffled voices. One of them -- a soft, accented murmur -- sent a jolt of recognition through me. Yulia.

My breathing became ragged, the control I’d maintained since entering the building beginning to slip. So close. They were just on the other side of this door. I tried the handle. Locked, as expected.

“Stand back,” I growled, no longer caring about stealth. I aimed my Glock at the lock and fired twice, the silencer reducing the shots to dull thuds.

The voices inside went silent. Then came a man’s shout, followed by Clover’s muffled cry. The sound of my daughter in distress shattered the last of my restraint.

I kicked the door with everything I had, wood splintering around the lock as it burst open. The scene inside burned into my brain like acid -- Yulia and Clover bound to metal chairs in the center of a bare concrete room, zip ties cutting into their wrists and ankles. Yulia’s face was bruised along one cheekbone, Clover’s eyes red from crying. But what sent white-hot rage exploding through my veins was the man standing between them, a hunting knife held casually against Clover’s cheek. He spun toward the doorway as I entered, his face twisting into a sneer beneath a snake tattoo that curled up his neck.

“Well, well,” he drawled, pressing the blade closer to Clover’s skin. “Looks like daddy didn’t pay up after all.” He shifted his weight, positioning himself behind Clover’s chair, using her as a shield. “That’s disappointing. Time to send a message about what happens when you don’t follow instructions.”

Clover whimpered as a thin line of blood appeared on her cheek. Yulia strained against her bonds, her blue eyes locking with mine across the room -- not in fear, but in absolute certainty. Even now, after everything, she believed in me completely. That trust hit me harder than any bullet ever could.

“You’re already dead,” I said, my voice unnaturally calm despite the storm raging inside me. “You just don’t know it yet.”

The man laughed, the sound as ugly as the tattoo on his neck. “Big talk from someone whose kid is about to lose an eye.” He adjusted his grip on the knife. “Drop your weapon or the girl gets it first. Then I’ll take my time with the Russian.”

Behind me, I sensed Hawk and Cyclops entering the room, spreading out to cover the angles. The kidnapper’s eyes darted between us, the first flicker of uncertainty crossing his face as he realized he was outnumbered.

I lowered my gun slowly, placing it on the floor. “Let them go,” I said, raising my empty hands. “This is between you and me now.”

“That’s right,” he said, his confidence returning. “Nice and easy. Now kick it over here.”

I complied, sending the Glock sliding across the concrete floor away from both of us. The man’s eyes followed it for a split second -- his first and final mistake.

I lunged forward with a roar that didn’t sound human even to my own ears, covering the distance between us in two strides. The knife slashed out, missing my face by inches as I ducked under his swing and tackled him away from Clover’s chair. We crashed to the floor, his head cracking against the concrete with a satisfying thud.

He was strong, most likely muscled from prison workouts and street fights. The knife flashed again, slicing through my sleeve and into the meat of my forearm. I barely felt it. All I could see was Yulia’s bruised face, Clover’s bleeding cheek. All I could think was, Mine. He hurt what’s mine.

My fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head back. Again. Again. Blood sprayed from his split lips, speckling my face, my hands. He tried to stab me, his movements becoming desperate as I rained blows down on him. I caught his wrist mid-thrust, twisting with all my strength until the bones gave way with a wet snap.

He screamed, the knife clattering to the ground. I grabbed it before he could recover, the handle slick with both our blood now. His eyes widened as he realized what was coming.

“Wait,” he gasped, “I can tell you --”

I drove the blade into his stomach, cutting off whatever lie he’d been about to offer. His body arched in shock and pain as I pulled the knife out, only to plunge it in again. And again. Blood bubbled from his mouth, his eyes wide with disbelief.

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