I don’t blink.
I don’t think.
I move.
I’m already sprinting—across the deck, down the ramp, into the waiting car. A blur of motion fueled by terror so sharp it feels like glass slicing through bone.
“It happened fast, sir,” Michail says beside me, already pulling up the feed on his tablet.
His voice is underwater, far away, barely reality.
He slides the screen into my line of sight, and the second I see the first frame?—
My vision tunnels.
“Reports are coming in now,” he continues. “We lost comms with the house.”
Luc is still shouting into the speaker, but his words dissolve beneath the roaring rush of blood in my ears.
And then the footage plays.
Two black SUVs.
Pulling up to my home with military precision.
Angles perfect.
Timing flawless.
Six men in formation.
No hesitation.
No wasted movement.
Silenced weapons.
Suppressors.
Headsets.
Coordination.
Not amateurs.
Not thugs.
Professionals.
And they are already dead—they just don’t know it yet.
The first two guards drop before they can raise their rifles.
Clean shots.
Instant kills.
The others try—God, they try—but it doesn’t matter.
