He had survived an overturned armored SUV, four broken ribs, internal bleeding, and seven hours trapped beneath twisted steel without giving the paramedics more than a clenched jaw

The blast blew the upper cellar reinforced latch off its moorings with a metallic shriek that echoed off the stone walls.

“They’re early,” Viktor muttered, unholstering a pair of heavy submachine guns with terrifying efficiency. He didn't panic; his movements were those of a veteran survivor of a dozen turf wars. He shoved one of the suppressed handguns toward me across a wooden wine crate. “Can you shoot?”

“I know how to handle a scalpel,” I said, looking at the heavy firearm. “And I know human anatomy. Point me in the right direction.”

Viktor gave a sharp nod of approval. “Stay behind the wine racks. If anyone comes down these stairs who isn't me, aim for the center mass.”

He spun around and sprinted toward the narrow stone staircase leading up into the main house, disappearing into the shadows just as the first flash-bang grenade clattered down the steps.

Flash!

A blinding white light and a deafening concussive boom rocked the cellar. I dropped low behind a massive oak barrel, shielding my ears and blinking away the searing spots dancing in my vision.

Footsteps pounded down the stone steps. Heavy boots. Tactical gear. Suppressed rifle fire chewed through the wooden wine crates above me, sending splinters and expensive red vintage raining down onto the concrete floor.

“Clear the lower level!” a harsh voice shouted from the stairs.

A masked operative in black tactical armor rounded the corner, rifle raised and sweeping the racks. He spotted Hale tied to the chair and rushed forward to cut him loose.

I didn't hesitate. Remembering my training in high-stress trauma wards—where split-second decisions meant the difference between life and death—I raised the pistol, steadied my breathing, and squeezed the trigger twice.

The recoil kicked hard against my wrist, the sound deafening in the confined cellar space.

Both rounds struck the operative precisely where his tactical vest met his thigh armor, severing the femoral artery. He dropped his rifle with a choked gasp, crashing heavily to the concrete floor and sliding into the spilled wine.

“Clever nurse,” Hale croaked from his chair, his eyes wide with sudden terror as he realized his rescuers weren't going to save him in time.

More gunfire erupted upstairs—a fierce exchange of automatic weapons fire that shook dust from the ceiling beams. Viktor was holding the stairwell single-handedly, turning the narrow choke point into a killing zone.

Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed my shoulder from behind.

I spun around, weapon raised, ready to fire—

“Hold your fire!” a familiar, gravelly voice commanded.

It was Gabriel Moretti.

He wasn't in his wheelchair. He was standing, leaning heavily against a wooden support pillar, wearing a dark wool sweater thrown over his pajama pants. His face was pale and slick with sweat, and his lower back was clearly wrapped in a tight supportive brace, but the terrifying authority in his eyes was unmistakable. In his right hand, he held a heavy-duty shotgun he must have retrieved from the estate’s armory.

“Gabriel? You shouldn't be out of bed,” I said, lowering the pistol slightly.

“If I stayed in that bed any longer, nurse, I’d be buried in it,” Gabriel growled, pumping the shotgun with a sharp, mechanical click. He looked down at Hale, who was thrashing against his zip-ties. “Marcus sent you to finish the job?”

Hale swallowed hard, his bravado entirely vanished. “Gabriel… it was business. The commission voted—”

“The commission is me,” Gabriel interrupted softly.