The heavy metal door slammed into the wall with a crash that shook the frame. In the doorway stood Mike Shaw, wounded, filthy, and very much alive. His torn uniform hung off his body in bloodstained strips.
Annie froze, her tear-filled eyes wide with shock. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. For a second she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
Boris stumbled backward, tripping over the backpack he had dropped. The color drained from his face. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost walk in carrying a knife.
The apartment filled with the smell of blood, antiseptic, and smoke. Mike was breathing hard, one hand braced on the doorframe to keep himself upright. In the other, the blade of the combat knife caught the dim light.
“Daddy!” Annie cried, and ran to him. She wrapped both arms around his leg and sobbed into his torn uniform. Mike closed his eyes for one second, feeling the warmth of his daughter against him and the pain recede behind it.
Boris looked wildly around for a way out. But the only exit was blocked by the man he had counted on never seeing again. He swallowed and tried to find words.
“Mike—listen,” he stammered, raising both hands. “This is all a misunderstanding. Let’s just talk.” His voice had gone thin and shaky, stripped of every ounce of swagger.
