Perfect.
"Volkov's moving," Adam reports. "Three vehicles, approaching from the east."
I watch the entrance, every muscle coiled tight. Everything we've built, all the intelligence we've gathered, the careful planning—it all comes down to the next ten minutes.
Jordan stands in the center of the warehouse floor, isolated and exposed. Moonlight makes her look like a target in a spotlight. My finger moves to the trigger, resting there with professional lightness. If anything goes wrong, if Volkov's security makes a move toward her, I won't hesitate.
Ten minutes later, Dmitri Volkov walks into the warehouse.
He's dressed for business—expensive Burberry coat, Italian leather shoes that click against concrete, completely inappropriate for an abandoned warehouse meeting. He's a man who operates with impunity, who doesn't expect to get dirty. His silver hair is perfectly styled, his face weathered but distinguished. He could be someone's grandfather, not a man who funds terrorism and human trafficking.
Four security operators surround him. Alert, weapons visible under their jackets. They position themselves in a protective diamond formation, giving them overlapping fields of fire. These aren't rent-a-thugs. These are operators who know their business.
My crosshairs track Volkov's center mass. The Kevlar vest Jordan's wearing will stop most handgun rounds, but if his security opens up with automatic weapons, all bets are off. Twenty-three meters between my position and Jordan. I can cover that distance in under four seconds. Will that be fast enough?
It'll have to be.
"Mrs. Fitzwallace," Volkov says, his accent thick but his English perfect. "I must admit, I'm surprised. You don't seem the type to sell information."
Jordan meets his eyes steadily. "Desperation makes people flexible. Your consortium made it clear I'm not safe anywhere. So I'm offering a trade. Information about Orpheus operations in exchange for calling off the hit."
"Interesting proposal." Volkov circles her slowly, studying. "But I wonder. Is this genuine desperation? Or is your husband somewhere in this building with a rifle?"
My finger touches the trigger, but I don't squeeze. Not yet. We need him talking. Need him to incriminate himself on recording.
"My husband doesn't know I'm here," Jordan lies smoothly. "He thinks negotiating with terrorists is beneath us. But I'm tired of looking over my shoulder. I want this over."
"Terrorists." Volkov smiles. "Such an ugly word. I prefer businessman. I sell products to clients. If those clients use the products in ways certain governments don't approve of, that's hardly my concern."
"You funded the Swiss attack," Jordan says flatly. "You organized the consortium specifically to kill me. That's personal, not business."
"You cost me twelve million euros and several valuable contacts," Volkov replies, his voice hardening. "Yes, Mrs. Fitzwallace, this is personal. You and your little crusade have interfered with my operations for years. Freeing women who were valuable commodities. Destroying facilities I helped establish. Drawing unwanted attention to very profitable arrangements."
"So you decided to kill me."
"I decided you were bad for business. And when something is bad for business, you eliminate it." He nods to his security. "Which is what we're going to do right now. You don't actually have information to trade. You have a trap. A rather obvious one. Did you think I wouldn't notice your friends outside?"
"I think you noticed exactly what we wanted you to notice," Jordan says calmly.
That's my cue.
I step out of concealment, rifle trained on Volkov. The movement is smooth, practiced, silent until I'm in position. "Don't move."
Everything happens in slow motion and too fast all at once. His security reaches for weapons. My finger tightens on the trigger, ready to drop the nearest threat. Jordan stays perfectly still, trusting me, trusting the team.
Then lights flood the warehouse. Brilliant white halogen floods that turn night to day, bleaching out shadows, making Volkov's security squint and shield their eyes. Major Adeyemi's team emerges from true concealment—positions we spent hours preparing, places the security sweep never detected. Eight operators, all armed.
Red laser dots paint every member of Volkov's security detail. Chest shots, head shots, a constellation of targeting lasers that make the tactical situation crystal clear. They're not just outgunned. They're outclassed.
"It's over, Volkov," I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline singing through my veins. Despite the relief flooding through me that Jordan's still standing, still safe. "Your security found Sawyer's team. Very good. But they didn't find ours. You're surrounded, outgunned, and everything you just said was recorded by three separate devices."
His face goes carefully blank. Professional calculation runs behind his eyes. His weight shifts almost imperceptibly. Handsstay visible. He's weighing his options, and he knows he's beaten.
One of his security operators—the one closest to Jordan—shifts his weight. The movement is subtle, barely perceptible, but I see it. I'm already swinging my rifle toward him when Adeyemi's voice cuts through the tension.
"Stand down, or we drop you where you stand." Her tone brooks no argument. "Weapons on the ground. Hands behind your heads. Now."
The moment stretches. Then, slowly, Volkov's security complies. Weapons hit concrete with dull thuds. Hands lace behind heads.
