Moscow at 6 AM smelled like snow and blood.
Private airstrip. Frozen. Illegal. Moretti-owned.
Dante wouldn’t stay in the helicopter.
Three bullets in him. Shoulder. Ribs. Thigh. All from the server room. All bleeding through his bandages.
“Sit down,” I told him. “You’re going to die before we land.”
“I die, you go home,” he said. Teeth gritted. Flying anyway. One hand on stick. One hand on his gun. “I’m not losing you to him.”
“He already has Rosa,” I said.
“Then we take her back.”
The Wolf’s compound showed on radar. 40 floors. Concrete tomb. No windows. Barbed wire. 200 men. Ex-Spetsnaz.
“Plan?” Vincent said. Earpiece. He was in a second chopper. 10 men. All we could scramble in 12 hours.
“Plan A,” Dante said. “We land. We kill everyone. We take Rosa. We go home.”
“Plan B?” I
