"Comms check," he said, his voice coming through clear despite standing right next to me.
"Clear," I replied.
"We go in separately," he said, all business now. "I'll take the north approach. You come from the south. Converge at the main structure once we've confirmed Merrick's location."
"Copy."
We split without ceremony. No handshakes or last-minute pep talks. Just two professionals going to work.
The weight of the pistol pressed against my lower back, reassuring and familiar. The suppressor added length, but Ellsworth's gunsmith had engineered the holster to accommodate the extra inches without printing through my jacket.
As soon as Ellsworth disappeared around the corner, his voice came through the comms.
Different now.
Clipped. Precise. All the genteel butler polish stripped away to reveal the operator underneath—the man who'd spent twenty-two years doing extremely illegal things in extremely dangerous places.
"Moving to position," he said. "No visual on hostiles yet."
I moved through the abandoned streets, my approach silent and measured. Years of training had taught me how to move through urban environments without drawing attention—how to use shadows, how to time movements to ambient noise, how to become functionally invisible, even in daylight.
The area was perfect for our purposes. Broken windows. Graffiti-tagged walls. Debris scattered across cracked pavement. The kind of place where people minded their own business because asking questions was how you got hurt.
Perfect for Merrick's purposes.
Terrible for his health.
I scanned for cameras and found none. Either they didn't think they needed them or they'd been lazy about security. Either way, it worked in our favor.
"First visual," Ellsworth reported, his voice perfectly even. "Two hostiles at north entrance. Armed. Assault rifles. AK pattern. Amateur stance."
"Copy. Still moving into position."
"Moving to engage."
I waited, my own approach continuing as I closed the distance to the southern side. The building loomed ahead—three stories of weathered brick and broken promises, most windows either shattered or boarded over with rotting plywood.
Ten seconds passed. Fifteen.
"First target down," Ellsworth said, his voice even as glass. Like he was commenting on the weather. No strain. No breathlessness. Just simple reporting. "Moving to second."
I was genuinely impressed. The man hadn't sounded even slightly winded. No elevated breathing that would suggest he'd been running or engaging in close-quarters combat. No indication of exertion at all.
Maybe he just knew these streets better. Maybe he'd scouted ahead, mapped every alley and shortcut.
Or maybe, he was just that good.
"Second target neutralized," came the update less than thirty seconds later. "Proceeding to interior. South side still clear?"
"Approaching now," I replied.
I rounded the final corner and spotted my first hostile.
Young guy, maybe mid-twenties, holding a submachine gun with the casual grip of someone who'd never actually had to use it. Mall ninja bullshit. All show, no substance.
He was looking the wrong direction entirely, attention focused on his phone—probably scrolling through social media while he was supposed to be on watch.
Amateur hour.
