I didn't sneak. Sneaking implies you’re trying to hide. I walked down the center of the street, my boots heavy on the wet asphalt. I let my scent bleed out, cedar, rain, and absolute, unchecked territorial aggression.
The lighter flared in the gray car. Then it froze.
The guy saw me. He saw six-foot-five of trouble walking through the rain in a dark peacoat. He saw the scar cutting through my eyebrow. He made the calculation.
He fumbled for the ignition.
Too late.
I reached the driver’s side window before the engine could catch. I didn't knock. I slammed my open palm against the glass. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet suburb.
The guy flinched so hard he dropped his lighter. He was young, maybe twenty-five, wearing a jacket that he shouldn't have been able to afford given his choice of vehicle. A freelancer.
He rolled the window down an inch. "Can I help you, mate? I'm just waiting for a?—"
I reached through the gap. My fingers hooked over the top of the glass. I pulled.
The glass didn't shatter; the mechanism inside the door shrieked and died as I forced the window down with brute strength.
"Oi!" He scrambled back against the passenger door, eyes wide. "What the hell?—"
I reached in with my other hand and grabbed the camera sitting on the passenger seat. A long lens. Professional grade.
"You work for Vance?" I asked. My voice was a low rumble, barely louder than the rain.
"That's private property! You can't?—"
I squeezed. The casing cracked. The lens crunched. I felt the delicate internal mirrors shatter under my grip. I kept squeezing until the expensive equipment was nothing but plastic shrapnel and dust in my hand.
I dropped the debris into his lap.
"The ambulance arrives in two minutes," I said.
"What ambulance?" He was shaking now. He smelled like cheap tobacco and terror.
"The one coming for the woman in number 42. She is being moved."
I leaned down, bringing my face level with his. I let him look at the scar. I let him smell the violence rolling off me in waves.
"You are going to sit here," I instructed. "You are going to watch them load her up. And then you are going to drive back to London and tell Julian Vance that the asset has been liquidated and relocated to a facility he cannot touch."
"I..." He swallowed hard. "He'll want to know where."
I didn't say a word. I just looked at him.
I held the gaze until he broke. Until he looked down at his lap, at the broken camera, baring his neck in submission.
"Go home," I said.
I turned my back on him. I didn't check to see if he pulled a weapon. He wouldn't. He was a watcher, not a fighter.
The ambulance turned the corner, lights flashing but siren silent.
I moved to the shadows of the hedges. I watched the team work. Efficient. fast. Rowan's mother looked confused but compliant as they guided her out, wrapped in a blanket.
I pulled out my secure phone. I keyed the mic.
"Extraction complete," I grunted. "Package is en route to the Manchester safehouse."
