Chapter 93 - The Iron Wolf Protocol
Sixty meters beneath the churning waves, inside the spartan, dimly lit crew quarters of the stealth submarine *Gorgon*, nine-year-old Mia Vance sat on a bolted metal bench, her hands bound with heavy zip-ties. Her clothes were damp, her braided hair partially unraveled, but her chin was held high.
Standing before her was Commander Vance Rostova, the scarred leader of the Iron Wolves. He leaned against the bulkhead, turning an ornate silver lighter over his tattooed knuckles.
"You do not cry like the children of oligarchs usually cry," Rostova mused in a low, gravelly rasp. "Your grandfather swore you would be trembling. He said the Sovereign bloodline was soft."
Mia met his predatory gaze without flinching. "My grandfather is currently drowning in the North Sea. And if you think my mother is soft, you haven't been paying attention to how many empires she tore down before breakfast."
Rostova chuckled, though his eyes remained wary. "Brave words for a little girl whose mother is on a sinking rig two hundred miles behind us."
"My mother is not behind you," Mia said quietly, her voice chillingly calm. She shifted her wrists slightly, feeling the concealed ceramic wire-cutter she had slipped from the emergency kit on the zodiac boat before they dragged her aboard. "My mother is already hunting you. And my brothers don't leave survivors."
Before Rostova could answer, the submarine shuddered violently.
Red battle-lanterns flickered on along the ceiling, bathing the narrow corridor in bloody crimson. An automated voice began blaring in harsh Russian through the speakers: *Warning. Active sonar ping detected. Bearing two-seven-zero. High-velocity aquatic projectiles approaching.*
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Rostova’s smile vanished instantly. He turned toward the intercom, barking orders to the bridge.
In the shadows behind his back, Mia’s fingers tightened on the ceramic blade.
