Chapter 4 - The Border Safehouse
The drive north toward the Canadian border was a silent, high-speed blur of black SUVs cutting through the dark, pine-choked highways of Whatcom County. The rain had turned into a thick, wet snow that stuck to the windshields, the headlights of Stellan’s convoy slicing through the white dark like silver blades.
Inside the lead Suburban, Stellan sat in the middle row, a ruggedized tactical tablet open on his knees. The screen displayed a satellite map of a secluded estate three miles south of the Blaine border crossing—a five-acre property hidden behind a dense wall of old-growth Douglas firs. Officially, it belonged to a lumber import corporation. Unofficially, it was a transit point for the Romanov syndicate’s high-value contraband.
"We have twelve men on site, boss," Marcus said from the front passenger seat, turning around to face Stellan. "Silas and his team have already cut the main power lines to the house. They’re running on a backup generator now, which means their external security cameras are down, but their thermal sensors will still be active."
"We don't need stealth, Marcus," Stellan said, his fingers scrolling through the schematics of the house. "We need speed. If they realize Daniel failed to get me on that plane, they will eliminate Sofiya within five minutes to clear the evidence."
He tapped a section of the map showing a reinforced basement access door. "We blow the rear entrance. Split their attention. I want a team covering the northern perimeter so no vehicles leave toward the border. I am going in through the front."
Marcus frowned, his brow furrowing. "Stellan, the front is a fatal funnel. They have a covered porch with interlocking fields of fire. Let the tactical team handle the breach."
"No," Stellan said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The man running this house is likely Lev Romanov. He was a junior captain when I was in St. Petersburg. He needs to see my face before he dies. He needs to know that his empire isn't large enough to hide from me."
Ten minutes later, the convoy killed its lights, rolling to a stop on a dirt logging road a quarter-mile from the estate. The men moved with lethal efficiency, stepping out into the freezing mud, their suppressed rifles held low. Stellan wore a heavy black wool coat over a soft body armor vest, a modified Glock 19 held firmly in his right hand.
The house was a sprawling, two-story structure of dark timber and river stone. It looked completely dark, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the generator vibrating through the wet air.
Stellan positioned himself behind a massive cedar tree sixty yards from the front porch. He clicked his earpiece twice. "Silas. Report."
"In position at the rear, boss," Silas’s voice crackled softly through the static. "Charges are set on the basement door. On your mark."
"Do it," Stellan commanded.
A heavy, muffled THOOM rocked the back of the estate, blowing a shower of splinters and white smoke into the night air. Instantly, shouting in panicked Russian echoed from inside the timber house. Flashlights flickered through the windows as the guards rushed toward the basement stairs to repel what they thought was a standard tactical raid.
"Go," Stellan ordered.
He broke cover, his boots churning through the frozen mud as he sprinted toward the front porch. Marcus was beside him, a heavy hydraulic ram in his arms. They hit the porch steps just as a guard appeared at the front window, raising an AK-47.
Stellan fired twice through the glass. The heavy 9mm rounds shattered the pane, the guard collapsing backward into the dark foyer with a dull groan.
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Marcus slammed the ram into the reinforced oak front door. The lock shattered with a sound like a gunshot, the door swinging wide to reveal a hallway filled with swirling dust and the smell of cordite.
Stellan charged through the threshold, his weapon raised, his mind entirely focused on one single thought: Sofiya.
