The left gate of the master bedroom suite was an iron-reinforced bottleneck, and for the Petrova advance team, it had turned into a meat grinder.
From the perspective of the syndicate soldiers pouring into the narrow corridor, the defense was unnatural. They weren't fighting standard corporate security; they were trading lead with a ghost who understood the geometry of a crossfire perfectly.
"Move up! He's reloading!" a Petrova vanguard barked, his submachine gun chewing through the antique crown molding of the frame.
He lunged past the threshold, only for three rounds to punch clean through his throat. The impact spun him around, his blood spraying the floral wallpaper before he hit the carpet. The defender—the tactical leader —was using a overturned marble-topped dresser as a deflector, firing blind around the corner with rhythmic, terrifying discipline. Every time a Petrova barrel peeked around the corner, a high-velocity round met it.
