The door burst open.
Three men. Masked. Armed. The first one, sword drawn, lunged. The blade, aimed at Viktor's throat, was fast. Professional. The strike of a trained killer.
Viktor moved.
His body, shifting to the side, avoided the blade by inches. His hand, reaching out, grabbed the swordsman's wrist. Twisted. The crack, sharp and wet, was the sound of bone breaking. The sword fell. The man screamed.
The second man came from the left. His knife, short and curved, slashed at Viktor's ribs. Viktor stepped back. The blade, missing, cut air. Viktor's fist, hitting the man's throat, collapsed his windpipe. The man fell. Choking. Gasping. His hands, at his throat, clawed.
The third man hesitated. His eyes, behind the mask, darted between his fallen companions. Between the man with the broken wrist and the man with the collapsed throat. The calculation, rapid and instinctive, was that of a professional assessing odds and finding them bad.
