The force of Kavrik’s tackle slammed into Vessia, driving the air from her lungs. He dragged her down onto the wool pile, pinning her flat beneath his ribs as a second crack shattered the upper transom. Glass showered over the floorboards and cut across the fringe of the carpet. The heavy fur of his coat, still draped over her, bunched around her head, muffling the sudden, chaotic shouts that erupted from the Vossen enforcers. “Secure the perimeter!” Kavrik’s voice, a low, dangerous rumble pressed against her ear, cut through the din. “Ilmar! East gate, now! Get your men to the cliffs. They’re coming in hard.” He bore down hard enough to crush her shoulder into the parquet. His ribs expanded against her shoulder blades in tight, shallow hitches. Smoked wool, bore cleaner, and sweat soaked off him into her hair. Across the floor, Ilmar spoke rapid ciphers into a wrist communicator, his boots grinding glass into the rug. The card table lay on its side, the ceramic teapot rolling across the varnished wood. Men, moving with practiced speed, swept tables aside, drawing concealed weapons. The heavy, carved doors to the room were thrown open, revealing more armed guards already pouring through, fanning out into the opulent hallways. A rapid succession of distant thumps vibrated through the floorboards—breaching charges. They weren’t just targeting a sniper; they were attempting a full-scale infiltration. The Morzencos possessed neither the payroll nor the nerve for shaped cordite. This was a professional hit. “Status!” Kavrik roared, his head lifted slightly, scanning the room. His hand pressed her collarbone down, holding her flat. “East wall breached, Boss! Volkov Syndicate sigils confirmed!” a guard yelled back, his voice strained. Volkov mercenaries took contracts on the southern wharves, charging by the corpse. They did not leave survivors. “Morzenco family sending a welcoming present, it seems,” Vessia muttered, the words tight, barely audible above the rising clamor. Kavrik's shoulders tightened, but he kept his face turned toward the doorway. “Sniper still active, Boss! Third floor, southeast tower!” another voice cried out, followed by the distant *whizz* of another bullet, likely impacting a wall further down the hall. “Burn it,” Kavrik said, flat and clipped. “Torch the entire east wing. Flush him out. Kill them all.” He was willing to level half his own house to snuff a single perch. Gunfire rattled down the outer gallery, carrying the sour stink of kerosene through the wall vents. Kavrik pushed up from the floor, checking her face and arms. His gaze lingered on her face, then dropped to her lap, where her hands rested on the rumpled fur of his coat. Warm fluid leaked over her upper lip. When she wiped her knuckle across it, the smear left behind was thick and inky black, identical to the stain that had ruined her handkerchief three nights ago. Kavrik froze. The color drained from under his stubble, his mouth parting as his focus locked entirely onto the dark fluid smeared over her knuckles. He opened his mouth to speak, but another series of heavy thuds shook the manor, closer this time, accompanied by shouts from inside the estate. The Volkovs were making headway. “Ilmar!” Kavrik shouted across the shattered room, his command raw and cracked around the edges. “Take the squad leader alive! Bring him to the cells intact!”

Lockdown