“You were right about the danger, about the surveillance. All of it.”
“I know that too.”
Chapter Ten - Nikola
The moment I pull Elara back from the edge, my mind shifts into a different gear entirely. Personal concern transforms into operational clarity, fear crystallizes into cold, calculating fury.
She’s safe in my arms, but the threat isn’t neutralized. The men who fell with the walkway—I need to know if they survived, if there are others, if this was the full extent of the operation or just the opening move in something larger.
“Stay behind me,” I tell Elara, easing her back against the rooftop access door. “Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t do anything that draws attention.”
She nods, eyes wide with shock and adrenaline, still processing how close she came to dying. I check my weapon—loaded, ready—and signal to the shadows where I know my people are waiting.
Dima emerges from behind the HVAC unit first, rifle steady, scanning for additional threats. Two more men appear from the stairwell, moving with the fluid precision of operators who’ve done this dance too many times to count.
“Building’s secure,” Dima reports quietly. “We’ve got complications on the ground level.”
“How many?”
“Three down from the fall. Two fled when we moved in. One still breathing but not for long without medical attention.”
Perfect. A survivor means information, and information means I can finally start dismantling whatever network put Elara in that alley.
“Secure the breathing one,” I order. “Everyone else sweeps for additional hostiles. I want this entire block locked down until we know exactly who we’re dealing with.”
The descent to street level takes three minutes—down through the building’s service elevator, past startled office workers who’ve learned not to ask questions when armed men appear in their workplace. The alley where this all started looks like a war zone now. Twisted metal from the collapsed walkway, blood pooling on concrete, emergency sirens wailing in the distance as first responders converge on the scene.
The surviving attacker is propped against a dumpster, conscious but barely. Both legs broken, possible internal bleeding, definitely concussed from the fall. He’s young—maybe twenty-five—with the kind of lean muscle that comes from regular training rather than genetic luck. Professional, but not elite. The sort of contractor you hire when you need bodies but not necessarily skill.
I kneel beside him, close enough that he can see my face clearly despite the blood running from a gash on his forehead.
“You know who I am?” I ask.
He nods weakly. Smart. Recognition means he understands exactly how fucked he is right now.
“Good. That saves us some time.” I pull out my phone, show him the voice recording app. “I’m going to ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them completely and honestly. If you lie, if you omit details, if you try to protect anyone up the chain from you, I will make your death significantly more unpleasant than it needs to be.”
His eyes dart past me to where Dima stands with his rifle trained on the alley entrance. Back to me. Down to the phone that’s already recording.
“Understand?” I continue.
“Yeah,” he croaks.
“Who hired you?”
“Don’t know. Never met him directly.”
I raise an eyebrow. He must see something in my expression because he rushes to elaborate.
“Payments came through intermediaries. Dead drops, encrypted channels, the whole nine yards. Professional setup.”
“You know the name.”
A pause. He’s weighing his options—loyalty to an employer who’s probably already writing him off as acceptable losses versus the very immediate threat of whatever I’ll do if he stays silent.
Survival wins.
“Marcus Hale,” he whispers.
