Energy spikes through me, cold and fast. “You are certain?”
“As certain as I am that you will ignore me if I try to talk you out of going,” he answers.
Vega rises from the floor in one smooth motion, his body tense and eyes fixed on me.
I move around the desk, already reaching for the weapons cabinet along the wall. “Get Kolya and Albert. I want two more men from the second rotation and the van ready in five minutes. If Ray is there, I want him boxed in before he realizes how close we are.”
Misha nods once and heads back toward the door. “On it,pakhan.”
“And Misha,” I call after him.
He pauses, one hand on the handle, his gaze lifting to mine.
“We take him alive,” I instruct. “If the chance exists.”
His mouth twists. “I will remind you of that when he starts talking about Hope like she is a bargaining chip.”
That image pours into my gut like ink spreading through clear water, darkening everything it touches. I grip the cabinet handle with unnecessary force and drag it open. “I do not need reminding.”
He dips his head and disappears into the hall.
Vega presses against my leg, warm and solid. I rest my hand briefly on his neck, my fingers sinking into his thick fur, then pull my focus to the work in front of me. Vest. Holster. Extra magazines. Knife. Radio. I move through the motions with seasoned speed, every strap and buckle familiar.
When I step out into the main hall, the house hums with movement. Men I trained fall into place as if drawn by a magnet. Kolya leans against a column near the front doors, his rifle in a soft case slung over his shoulder. Albert is beside him with a compact shotgun in his hand. A pair of guards from the second rotation joins them, their faces set in the hard lines of men who know what kind of night this will be.
Misha meets me by the door, wearing a headset and a small device already clipped to his vest. “Comms are up,” he notes as he passes the earpiece. “Channel three. I brought backups.”
I hook the piece to my ear and test the mic with a low, clipped word. The men around me nod as they hear my voice in their own earpieces.
“Where is Sage?” I ask quietly, almost despite myself.
“Guest wing, last I checked,” Misha replies. “Do you want to tell her where you are going?”
“No,” I answer. “Not until I have something real to give her. She deserves more than maybes.”
Misha studies me for a moment, his eyes searching, then gives a short nod. “Fine. Then let us bring her something more than maybes.”
We step out into the cold night. The air has a damp bite to it, and the clouds are hanging low over the city, muting the stars. The convoy waits at the base of the front steps. Two SUVs and the modified van, their engines rumbling softly, and their headlights off. Vega moves ahead of me, jumping easily into the back of the lead vehicle when I open the door.
As I climb in after him, I glance back at the house. A single light glows in the guest wing on the second floor. My chest pulls tight, but I force my eyes away and tap on the seat twice. The driver recognizes the signal, and we roll out through the gates.
The ride to the south side takes twenty minutes, but it feels longer. Seattle at night is a mix of reflections and shadow, streetlights washed across wet pavement, and neon signs bleeding color onto sidewalks. In the backseat, Vega leans against my thigh, his body warm and breath slow. I rest my hand on his shoulder and let my fingers move through his fur, grounding myself in the familiar feel of him.
Misha sits across from us, his tablet balanced on his knee. “Ray’s phone has not moved since the last ping,” he reports. “Either he turned it off or he likes this warehouse very much.”
“Any cameras in the area?” I ask.
“City traffic cams two blocks over. Private ones on nearby buildings. We hacked what we could. We saw two men who match the build of his known associates enter the warehouse. No one has left since.”
Good. Trapped rats are easier to catch.
Kolya shifts next to Misha, adjusting the strap on his rifle. “We go quiet or loud?” he asks.
“We go quiet until they give us a reason for loud,” I answer. “We surround, cut off exits, and corner Ray. If they start shooting first, we finish it.”
No one argues.
We leave the main streets for narrower roads choked with old warehouses and forgotten lots. The city feels different here, the buildings crouched closer together, windows dark, graffiti spreading over brick and corrugated metal. The smell of salt and oil creeps in through the car vents.
