I attach the rope to a ventilation pipe and test it with a sharp tug. Beside me, Max performs the same task.
We need to clear the third floor to get to her.
We position breaching charges—small enough to create a hole without bringing the whole roof down—on the skylight.
“In three. Two. One.”
The charges pop with a noise equivalent to a handclap. After the glass punches loose, we rappel in perfect sync, descending into the heart of enemy territory.
Two guards gape up at us from under a shower of broken glass.
I put a bullet through the first one’s throat before my feet touch the ground. Max eliminates the second one with his knife, the blade finding its mark with surgical precision.
We start moving again before their bodies hit the floor, flowing through the warehouse like shadows on water.
The first real resistance comes at the stairs to the second level.
Three men with automatic weapons wait, alerted to our presence by some sixth sense.
To my right, Max melts into the darkness. I duck behind a stack of empty crates. The guards advance, sweeping their weapons in careful arcs.
With a soft, wet noise, Max’s garrote wire finds its home, cutting off a scream before it begins.
The remaining guards whirl toward the noise.
Popping up behind their backs, I shoot twice. Both bodies drop onto the concrete floor.
I huff out a breath, wincing when my ribs protest. “Southeast stairwell clear.”
“Loading dock compromised.” Alexei’s voice crackles in my ear while gunfire pops in the background. “Heavy resistance. We’ll hold them here.”
The diversion works, drawing attention away from our approach.
I signal Max, and we descend the stairs in controlled jumps. My body propels forward on instinct, years of training and violence distilled into pure, efficient motion.
The second floor is a maze of temporary walls and makeshift offices. Chloe should be somewhere ahead.
At the first junction, we encounter two more guards. Max engages one in a swift, brutal takedown that ends with the guard’s snapped neck. I handle the other one with a gunshot to the chest. After gurgling a wet cough, the man quiets. Dead.
We continue toward our destination. Halfway across the floor, all hell breaks loose.
Alarms blare. Emergency lights pulse red in the darkness. Someone found a body.
“Cover blown.” Screaming in the background competes with Kirill’s voice. “Switching to assault protocol.”
“Roger.” I ditch the silencer and swap it out for a fresh magazine. Beside me, Max mirrors my actions.
No more sneaking. Time for war.
Our enemies rush us from both ends of the corridor in a wave of black-clad security.
Max and I stand back-to-back, a two-man fortress.
His style is controlled fury. Economical movements with no wasted energy, each strike a killing blow.
Mine is cold precision. Headshots. Throat shots. The most efficient path to eliminating a threat.
Bullets fly. One grazes my shoulder, burning a line of fire that I immediately ignore. Our vitals are protected by bulletproof vests.
