Amy moved first, Glock 19 raised in a steady two-handed grip, suppressor threaded tight.
The compact pistol was perfect for close-quarters work—fast target acquisition, minimal recoil, deadly precision.
Her shoulders were loose, posture aggressive, already hunting.
Elena swept left, HK416 tight against her shoulder.
The short-barreled D10RS variant was built for exactly this kind of work—confined spaces, rapid engagement. Suppressor mounted, EOTech glowing faint green, she scanned corners with machine-like calm. Every step she took was deliberate, measured.
I took point.
Sig Sauer P226 in my right hand—old, reliable, accurate. Glock 18 in my left—selective fire, thirty-three-round magazine, safety already off. If this went loud—and it would—I was prepared to turn the corridor into a killing lane.
The explosion would have alerted anyone within range. That wasn’t a mistake. It was part of the plan.
Noise created confusion. Panic pulled guards toward the surface, toward the obvious threat. We were the blade sliding in from below.
The tunnel beyond the breach was narrow and damp, concrete walls sweating with moisture.
Emergency lights flickered overhead, casting stuttering shadows that distorted depth and distance.
The air reeked of mold, rust, and old machine oil—the smell of abandonment layered over recent use.
We cleared it in seconds.
At the far end, a vertical metal ladder disappeared into darkness. Above it, an access hatch stood partially open.
Two guards waited at the top.
Their flashlights jittered across the ladder shaft, rifles raised but unfocused—confused, not yet fully aware of what they were facing.
I didn’t hesitate.
My dagger—a razor-sharp Ka-Bar balanced to perfection—left my hand in a single fluid motion.
No thought. No hesitation. Muscle memory took over.
The blade struck the first guard in the throat with a wet, meaty thunk. He stiffened, eyes going wide as he tried—and failed—to scream. Blood pulsed hot and dark between his fingers as he clawed at the hilt.
He collapsed backward without a sound.
Elena was already moving.
She took the ladder in three silent strides, vaulted the final rung, and clamped a hand over the second guard’s mouth before he could react. Her other arm wrapped around his head, twisting with brutal efficiency.
A sharp crack echoed softly.
The guard went limp, crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut.
Both bodies hit the floor in near silence.
Amy flashed me a quick thumbs-up, her grin almost playful beneath the camo paint. Like this was routine. Like this was just another exercise on a range back home.
Like eighteen people hadn’t died to get us here.
I didn’t return the smile.
Something cold and restless was tightening in my gut. A pressure that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with instinct.
