Chapter 11
The air was thick with the stench of cordite and pulverized drywall. The suburban safe house, meant to be an impenetrable shield, had instantly become a deathtrap. Konstantin’s men, a well trained army in black tactical gear, were methodically breaching the perimeter.
I was pressed against the kitchen counter, my hands soaked in the blood of the wounded FBI agent, desperately trying to keep pressure on his chest wound. The room was a maelstrom of violence. The continuous, rhythmic blast of automatic weapons, the shouts of Agent Maria’s remaining team, and the occasional chilling silence as someone went down.
Adrian stood in the living room doorway, a grim silhouette moving with practiced lethality, using shattered furniture as cover. He was a machine. His movements were fluid
