“Noted.”
“Ivy—”
“Daniel.” I keep my voice low, eyes on the guards. “I've got Luce and Punk. I've got eighteen minutes. I've got this.”
He doesn't respond, but I can feel his disapproval crackling through the line.
The guard on the right flicks his cigarette away, orange ember arcing through the darkness. They're talking now, laughing about something. Sloppy. Distracted.
Perfect.
I move.
The distance between the container and the building is maybe thirty feet. I cover it in seconds, staying low, boots silent against gravel. My back hits the metal siding and I pause, listening. Nothing but their voices, still relaxed, still unaware.
“Fifteen feet to your right,” Luce whispers. “Service door. Punk's got it.”
I slide along the wall, fingers finding the handle just as I hear the electronic lock disengage. Click. Smooth. Punk's a goddamn artist.
The door swings open on well-oiled hinges and I slip inside.
Darkness swallows me whole. I wait, letting my eyes adjust, breathing through my nose. The air smells like rust and motor oil and something organic going bad in a corner somewhere.
“Two hostiles on your level,” Punk says. “Thirty feet ahead. Patrol pattern suggests they'll cross in front of you in ten seconds.”
I press myself against a stack of wooden pallets, hand on the Glock.
Footsteps. Heavy. Two sets. They're arguing about a football game, voices echoing off the high ceiling.
“Bears are trash this year.”
“Been trash every year since '85.”
They pass within six feet of me. I could reach out and touch them.
I wait until their footsteps fade, then move deeper into the warehouse. The layout matches the schematics Punk sent—main floor open, second floor offices running along the north wall, metal stairs zigzagging up at intervals.
“Target's still stationary,” Luce confirms. “But his detail just split. One's heading toward the stairs.”
“Which stairs?”
“Your stairs. Thirty seconds.”
I sprint for the nearest cover—a forklift parked between two shipping containers. My heart kicks up, adrenaline singing through my veins. This part never gets old. The hunt. The precision required to stay alive.
The guard appears at the top of the stairs, descending slowly, flashlight beam cutting through the dark. He's older than the others. Heavier. His hand rests on his hip, near his weapon, but his posture is casual.
Mistake.
I wait until he reaches the bottom, until he's focused on checking the shadows to his left, and then I move.
My arm hooks around his throat, cutting off air before he can shout. The sound of his neck splitting cracks through the air and he drops like a bag of wet cement.
“One down,” I breathe.
“Five to go,” Punk says. “Four now. Two on the main floor just converged. They're in the southwest corner.”
Heading for the stairs, I pull out my Glock. Each step is calculated, weight on the balls of my feet, testing for creaks before committing.
