“Literal or poetic?” Vale asks, amused.
“Literal,” Ash says, scoffing like he’s offended anyone would expect less. “Back side of Damien’s block. Dumpster behind the old print shop is currently belching smoke. The residents across the way called it in. I also ‘accidentally’ reported an active electrical fault in the same building. Fire brigade is en route. Syndicate chatter’s gone jumpy. They’re about to move him.”
Saint grins devilishly. “Bless you, Lysander.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Alley entrance two buildings south of Damien’s current nest,” Ash answers. “His boys are trying to avoid the main street because police are going to be rubbernecking as soon as they hear ‘fire.’ They’re going to take the back stairwell and cut east to the narrow lane between the furniture consignment and the shuttered café. You’ve got ninety seconds between exit and the end of my blind patch. After that, they’re in camera range.”
“Copy,” I say.
We’re already in position. Saint eases the car into the mouth of the alley like he belongs there. Engine running, headlights off.Our plates are cloned off a council waste truck. Anyone glancing is going to see “gov property” and look away.
I get out first.
The smell in the alley is damp and sour — old beer, rotting cardboard, something dead that’s been ignored because no one here calls anyone for help unless they’re bleeding out. The brick wall to my right is tagged in layer after layer. The fire Ash started is around the corner. I can feel the heat eddying down the lane.
Vale steps out beside me, rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck. He’s in black combat pants and a fitted tee that hugs ink and muscle. He looks like sin dressed down. He’s vibrating with anticipation.
Saint kills the engine and follows. He’s in matte black, collar open, sleeves rolled, rosary tucked into his shirt now so it doesn’t flash in light. He moves like serenity with a knife in it.
I look at both of them, determination blazing in my blood. “You know roles,” I say.
Saint gives me a small nod. “Herd and block.”
Vale’s smile is lazy and hungry. “Snatch and break.”
“AndI’llhandle Damien,” I say.
Ash’s voice comes across the comms. “Heads up. They’re moving.”
I look down the alley, just as a back door slams open thirty meters ahead. Two men spill out first — both built stocky, both in those contractor jackets I clocked in Canary Wharf. Their guns are drawn already, low and tight. Behind them: Damien. He looks pissed. Not scared. Pissed. His suit jacket’s been thrown over his shoulders in a rush, collar crooked. His jaw is tight. His eyes are shrewd, scanning the area and obviously paranoid.
Good.
Two more behind him, covering rear. One of them has that military stance I’ve seen a thousand times — weight forward,elbows in, muzzle discipline like religion. He’s the problem. He’ll need speed.
“Now,” I murmur.
We move. It happens in a slice of time that feels like slow motion and hits like a car crash. Saint peels right, silent, slipping into the mouth of a side cut-through like a shadow. Vale goes left, casual, hands in his pockets, head tipped like he’s just another street rat cutting through to score. I go straight down the center of the alley like I own it.
“Oi,” Vale calls out in that lazy, taunting tone that make men do stupid things. “You lot lost?”
The two in front snap up instantly. Good trigger discipline — they don’t spray. But both of them turn their muzzles toward Vale instead of scanning perimeter.
That’s their first mistake.
Because I’m already moving.
I close the last ten meters in four strides. I go straight for the first guard’s wrist, twist, slam my elbow into the nerve at his forearm and rip the gun out before he can react. He chokes out a curse, tries to pivot, and I put a knee into his gut hard enough to fold him.
He drops.
The second guy — closest to Damien — turns at the motion, gun up, mouth opening.
Saint is already there. He’s quiet when he moves, always has been. It’s disorienting if you’re not used to it. One second the guard is lifting his aim, the next Saint’s hand is around his throat and Saint slams him back into the brick with such controlled force the man’s head bounces, eyes rolling. The gun clatters to the ground.
“Shh,” Saint murmurs, almost kind. “Rest.”
