Chapter 161
Evelyn's POV
I moved to the left side of the doorway. Julian took the right. Creating a crossfire angle. Anyone coming through that door would be caught in a kill zone.
We waited.
The sounds of combat had stopped. The hallway beyond was silent except for the distant rumble of thunder.
Too silent.
Then I heard it. Soft footsteps. Multiple sets. Moving with professional stealth. Getting closer.
Julian held up three fingers. Then two. One.
The door exploded inward.
Not with a breaching charge. With a battering ram. The entire door frame tore free from the wall in a shower of splinters and plaster.
Three operatives poured through simultaneously. Not single file like we'd expected. They'd widened the breach specifically to negate our crossfire advantage.
Professional. Coordinated. Terrifying.
Julian and I opened fire together. Our muzzle flashes lit the smoke-filled room in strobing bursts.
The first operative went down. My shot catching him in the throat above his vest. He dropped hard.
But the other two were already moving. Spreading out. Using the furniture as cover. Returning fire with disciplined precision.
I rolled behind the bed. Came up firing. Caught the second operative in the shoulder. He spun. Dropped his weapon. But didn't go down.
Instead he charged.
He was on me before I could adjust my aim. His hand locked around my wrist. Twisting. Trying to force me to drop my weapon. His other hand went for my throat.
I drove my knee into his groin. He grunted but didn't release. His grip on my throat tightened.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't get leverage. He was bigger. Stronger. Using his weight advantage.
So I stopped fighting against his strength. Instead I twisted with it. Used his momentum. My free hand found the knife at my belt. Drew it. Drove it up under his ribs.
He gasped. His grip loosened. I twisted the blade. Felt it scrape bone. He collapsed.
I spun. Weapon coming up. Looking for Julian.
He was locked in close combat with the third operative. They'd both lost their weapons. Fighting hand-to-hand with brutal efficiency.
The operative was good. Former Spetsnaz by his technique. He blocked Julian's strikes. Countered with vicious elbow strikes and knee attacks.
But Julian was better. Or maybe just more desperate.
He caught the operative's arm. Executed a joint lock. Drove him face-first into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. The operative slumped.
We had maybe three seconds before the next wave.
"Reload," Julian gasped. Blood was streaming from a cut above his eye. "They're going to—"
The windows exploded inward.
Three more operatives came through in a shower of glass. Rappelling down from the roof. Using the storm and our distraction to gain entry from an unexpected vector.
They hit the floor firing. We both dove for cover. Rounds tore through the mattress. The nightstand. Everything around us disintegrating under sustained fire.
I came up shooting. Caught one operative center mass. He went down.
But the other was already moving. Closing the distance. He kicked my weapon from my hand. His fist connected with my jaw hard enough to snap my head back.
I tasted blood. Saw stars. But training took over.
I blocked his next strike. Countered with a palm strike to his nose. Felt cartilage crunch. He staggered back.
I didn't give him time to recover. I swept his legs. He went down hard. I was on him immediately. My knife finding the gap between his vest and helmet.
He stopped moving.
I looked up. Julian had engaged the last operative. They were trading blows with mechanical precision. Block. Counter. Strike. Both of them operating on pure training and muscle memory.
The operative was wearing Julian down. I could see it. Julian was already injured. Breathing hard. His movements getting slower.
I grabbed my fallen Glock. Took aim.
But they were moving too fast. Too close together. I couldn't get a clean shot without risking hitting Julian.
The operative sensed my hesitation. Used it. He broke away from Julian. His weapon coming up. Tracking toward me.
Julian didn't hesitate. He threw himself between us. Putting his body in the line of fire.
The shot was deafening in the enclosed space.
Julian's body jerked. He stumbled backward. His hand going to his chest.
"No!" The scream tore from my throat.
I fired. Three shots. Center mass. The operative went down.
I was already moving. Already reaching for Julian. He'd collapsed against the wall. His face was pale. But his eyes were open.
"Vest caught most of it," he gasped. His hand pressed against his ribs. Blood was seeping between his fingers. "But something got through. I'm okay, Evelyn. I'm okay. Our wedding is still happening."
He tried to smile. But I could see the pain in his eyes.
I pressed my hand over his. Trying to stop the bleeding. My other hand fumbled for my phone. We needed an ambulance. Needed—
"Evelyn." Julian's voice was urgent. His eyes focused past me. On the doorway. "Behind you."
I spun. My weapon coming up.
A figure stepped into view. Moving with unhurried confidence. He wasn't rushing. Wasn't taking cover. Just walking into the room like he owned it.
Like he had nothing to fear from us.
The figure stepped fully into the light. And my blood turned to ice.
Nikolai.
The Tsar himself. Standing in our bedroom doorway. His ice-blue eyes—so like my own—surveyed the carnage with professional detachment.
Six of his operatives. Dead or dying. The room destroyed. Julian wounded. Me standing between them with my weapon raised and shaking.
"Vpechatlyayushchiy," he said quietly. Impressive. "Six of my best operatives. You killed them all. I trained you well, doch'."
The endearment made my stomach turn. Daughter.
He took a step forward. I fired.