The deafening boom of the elevator doors imploding still echoed in Saskia’s skull, a raw concussion that rattled her teeth. Acrid smoke, thick and oily, began to seep into the master suite, painting the red emergency beacons a sickly, blurred orange. Kazimir stood motionless. His hand, as quick as a viper strike, found her wrist, yanking her hard against him. His other hand, impossibly, had already drawn a compact, matte-black firearm from an unseen holster beneath his dinner jacket. The cold steel pressed against her side. It was a promise, not a threat. “Pantry corridor,” he barked, his voice vibrating through her ribs. “Now.” He gave her no time to think. He shoved her forward, not gently, towards the concealed service door, a heavy slab of sound-dampening steel set into the suite’s raw concrete. She stumbled, regaining her footing, and then moved. Her ribs rattled under her sternum, yet her mind locked into cold, vicious geometry. The galley. Her domain. Gunmen, black silhouettes cutting through sulfurous haze, spilled into the foyer as automatic fire chewed along the plaster. The air shrieked with ricochets. Kazimir drifted through the drifting ash like smoke himself, his return fire rhythmic and deliberate, dropping two attackers before their barrels crested. The sheer volume of rifle rounds tore apart the framing, forcing him back toward the reinforced threshold. Saskia broke through the service hatch into her cavernous stainless-steel domain, bathed in flat amber beacons. She could hear the chaos behind her, the shouts, the gunfire, the metallic scrapes of combat boots on polished stone. Every burner line and prep slab sat waiting. She acted without pause. Her knuckles hit the primary gas valve, cracking the seal until a faint sweet hiss tainted the air. She wove between the prep tables, calculating sightlines against the steel. Kazimir cleared the doorway, dark crimson blooming across the starched linen over his ribs. Kevlar had absorbed the slug, but the kinetic trauma left his gait hitching. Bracing an arm on an island counter, he swept the corners for blind spots, catching sight of her as she dragged heavy glass decanters off an overhead rack. Pins tumbled from her updo, her silk bodice torn, but her hands worked with vicious, surgical speed. “What are you doing?” he rasped. A raider in a ballistic visor cleared the dry-storage bay, raising a carbine straight toward Kazimir. Saskia offered no reply. She hurled one jar, then another, the heavy glass disintegrating across the slate tiles. Ammonia and degreaser vapor erupted into the sulfur-rich air. The intruder flinched at the caustic fumes, lowering his sightline for a fraction of a second. Saskia smacked the electronic striker on the eight-burner range. A low *whoosh* rolled across the surface as blue and orange jets erupted into the dimness. The shooter jerked backward, his tread losing traction on tile slicked with caustic lye and spilled olive oil. He fought for balance, his arms flailing, but the combination was lethal. He slid uncontrollably, his momentum carrying him directly towards the roaring gas burners. His scream was cut short as his heavily armored form slammed into the stovetop, catching fire with a sickening, wet crackle. The smell of burning synthetic fabric and something far worse filled the air. Kazimir’s gaze locked onto her, shock curdling into hard, reluctant approval across his carved jawline. She was a tornado of creative destruction, her hands already reaching for a different set of ingredients. “More coming!” she rasped, gesturing toward three dark shapes pressing past the shattered prep line. “We need to move, *now*! This way!” She gestured towards the walk-in freezer, a fortress of insulated steel. Kazimir, still absorbing the gruesome scene of the burning mercenary, nodded, pushing off the counter. His gait dragged slightly, bruised ribs checking his stride. They ducked behind a stack of industrial-sized flour bags, the heavy sacks offering temporary cover from the incoming fire. Saskia uncapped an oversized stoneware flask of cooking oil, the fatty scent cutting through cordite. “Take this,” she commanded, shoving the vessel into his grip. “When I tell you, heave it.” Assault squads pushed into the galley, automatic rounds shredding burlap sacks and blasting chalky clouds across the aisle. Kazimir fired back, his shots precise, deadly. Saskia, meanwhile, scrambled towards the massive walk-in oven, its interior large enough for a person. With a grunt, she manually forced the heavy door open, revealing the infernal glow within. “Kazimir, now!” she shrieked over the din. He pivoted hard, hurling the ceramic jug straight into the cluster of advancing squad members. Ceramic fractured against a chest plate, splashing viscous oil into eyes and seams. Throaty curses cut short into shrieks. It bought them precious seconds. Saskia grabbed Kazimir’s arm, pulling him towards the freezer entrance just as a volley of bullets tore through the air where he had been standing. They dove inside, the heavy steel door clanging shut behind them, plunging them into a frigid, echoing darkness. The sounds of battle were muffled, distant. “You… are insane,” Kazimir said, his voice a low rasp in the cold, his chest heaving. He was pressed close to her, the heat of his body a startling contrast to the icy air. His hand, still holding his weapon, was alarmingly close to her face. The steel door groaned. A heavy *thump* vibrated through the metal. Someone was trying to get in. They stood there, muscles coiled, weapons raised – Kazimir with his pistol, Saskia with a massive, gleaming chef’s knife she’d snatched from a magnetic strip. The silence stretched, thick and painful, broken only by their ragged breathing. Then, the heavy door slowly, deliberately, began to open. Instead of a faceless gunman, it was Teodor Vuk. His usually impeccable uniform was torn, bloodied, but his eyes, cold and triumphant, were fixed on Kazimir. And in his left hand, dragged from the shadows, bruised and terrified, was Miro. His face was streaked with grime, a dark bruise blooming on his temple, but it was him. Her brother. Held like a ragdoll, a whimpering shield against the world. Teodor’s other hand, steady as stone, brought a glinting pistol to Miro’s temple. “Drop your weapons, Ozerov,” Teodor’s voice was calm, utterly devoid of emotion, a chilling contrast to the scene. “Or the boy dies.”

Kitchen Warfare