Chapter 5 - The Breach
The seconds ticked by like lead weights dropping into an abyss.
Viktor knelt in the freezing mud beside the steel fire door, his tactical team arrayed behind him in the shadows like gargoyles carved from stone. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to spring. If Rosie had been caught, if she had turned out to be a double agent, if the pipe was a dead end...
One minute.
The guards down the hall took another drag of their cigarettes, laughing loudly at a crude joke.
Two minutes.
Suddenly, the hum of the diesel generator died with a dying gasp. The harsh, flickering fluorescent lights overhead sputtered, hummed a final dismal note, and plunged the entire underground tunnel into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
"What the hell?" one of the guards shouted down the hall, fumbling for his flashlight.
"Power surge! Check the breaker box!" the other yelled.
Three minutes.
Click.
The heavy electromagnetic locks on the reinforced steel door disengaged with a mechanical thud as the emergency fail-safe kicked in.
"Now," Viktor snarled into his comms.
Before the guards could even draw their weapons, Viktor and his men surged through the door like a dark wave. There was no sound of gunfire—only the muffled thuds of silenced shots, the crunch of combat boots on concrete, and the quick, efficient neutralization of the enemy. Two seconds later, both guards were slumped against the wet brick walls, unconscious and disarmed.
From the dark opening of a side ventilation shaft, a small hand appeared, followed by a scruffy, muddy dog wagging its tail, and then Rosie, wiping soot from her forehead with the back of her sleeve.
Viktor grabbed her by the shoulders, lifting her effortlessly out of the shaft and setting her down behind the secure line. He didn't say thank you—men like Viktor Draven didn't have words for moments like this—but his grip on her shoulder was warm, firm, and protective.
"Stay here," Viktor ordered his lead enforcer, Thomas. "Guard the perimeter. If a rat breathes without my permission, kill it."
Viktor pushed open the inner sanctum door, stepping into Marcus Vance’s private lair.
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The room was furnished with stolen leather armchairs, a mahogany desk covered in weapons blueprints, and in the far corner, tied securely to a wooden chair with thick nylon cords, sat a small, terrified boy with tear-stained cheeks and dark curly hair.
"Leo," Viktor breathed, his voice breaking for the first time in ten years.
