The Hunt

The service tunnels ran behind the walls of the palace, narrow concrete arteries meant for plumbing and electrical maintenance. They were freezing.

Dante pushed Alexei ahead of him, the beam of his tactical flashlight cutting through the dust.

"Why not the Panic Room?" Dante hissed, checking behind them. "It's closer."

Alexei stopped, turning to look at him. "Because it won't open."

"What do you mean it won't open? It's biometric."

"I... I hacked the door code earlier," Alexei admitted, looking down at his fuzzy slippers. "I wanted to sneak out to the garage to see the snowmobiles. I jammed the logic board. It’s bricked."

Dante stared at him. "You bricked the million-dollar safe room because you wanted to go sledding?"

"I was bored!"

"You're a genius, Your Highness. A certified genius."

A crash echoed from the floor above. Boots on marble. Heavy voices shouting in Russian.

"They're inside," Dante said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Kitchen. Now."

They scrambled down the ladder into the industrial kitchen. It was a maze of stainless steel islands and hanging copper pots. Dante shoved Alexei behind the walk-in freezer door.

"Stay down," Dante ordered. He grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet from a rack. It was pathetic against rifles, but it was all he had.

The service door swung open.

A mercenary stepped in. He wore winter camo and night-vision goggles. He swept the room with the barrel of his suppressed carbine.

Dante lunged from the shadows. He swung the skillet, connecting with the mercenary’s helmet with a deafening *clang*. The man stumbled but didn't fall. He spun, swinging the butt of his rifle into Dante’s ribs.

Dante gasped, collapsing to the tile. The mercenary raised his boot to stomp on Dante’s chest.

* Hiss!*

A stream of high-pressure carbonated water blasted the mercenary in the face. Alexei stood on top of the prep counter, holding an industrial soda siphon like a flamethrower.

The mercenary sputtered, blinded by the fizzing liquid. He took a step back, wiping his goggles.

"Now!" Alexei shouted, kicking a bag of dry chickpeas off the counter. Thousands of hard, round legumes scattered across the polished floor.

The mercenary’s boot hit the marbles. He went down hard, his head cracking against the stainless steel island.

Dante didn't hesitate. He scrambled up and delivered a knockout blow to the man’s jaw.

Dante leaned against the counter, clutching his bruised ribs. He looked at the unconscious gunman, then up at the twelve-year-old Prince holding a soda bottle.

"Chickpeas?" Dante wheezed.

"Physics," Alexei said, hopping down. He picked up his red-wrapped gift from where he’d set it. "Friction coefficients are a nightmare on polished tile. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dante lied, wincing. "You did good, kid. Really good."

"Don't call me kid," Alexei sniffed, though he looked pleased. "But we have a problem. That wasn't the leader. And the radio says they're sweeping the lower levels."