Four blocks to the car. I make it in three minutes flat, engine roaring to life as flashlight beams converge on my position.
Tires screaming, I'm gone before they can organize vehicle pursuit.
But they saw me. They know someone was there. And Lazarev will tighten security even further.
I drive a surveillance detection route—random turns, highway loops, parking garage reversals—before heading back to the safe house. Takes ninety minutes to confirm I'm clean.
Isabella opens the door as I reach the landing. Takes one look at my face.
"What happened?"
I step inside, lock the door. "They made me. Six guards now, plus Lazarev on site. They know someone's coming."
She goes pale. "Abort?"
"Can't." I spread updated facility photos on the table. "Compounds ship out in forty-eight hours. We go tomorrow night or we lose them."
"Six guards, Remy. And Lazarev."
"I know."
"That's a tactical team, not warehouse security."
"I know." I meet her eyes. "Which is why we're changing our approach. No stealth infiltration. We go in hard during shift change. Neutralize guards fast. You identify compounds while I set charges. Luc's extraction team provides cover fire if we need emergency egress."
She stares at the photos. Processing the danger. The violence.
"People will die," she says quietly.
"Yes."
"Guards who might not know what they're protecting."
"Probably." I don't soften it. "But if we don't destroy those compounds, your research kills thousands. Children in metro cars. Office workers. Anyone in enclosed spaces when buyers deploy."
Isabella's hands shake slightly. She steadies them. When she looks up, her eyes are hard.
"Then we make sure no one deploys them." She pulls the blueprints closer. "Walk me through the new plan."
That's when the door explodes inward.
Three men. Tactical gear. Weapons raised.
I move on instinct. Grab Isabella, throw her behind the counter. Draw my gun from my ankle holster.
First man through takes two rounds center mass. Down.
Second man fires. Round punches through the couch where I was standing. I return fire from behind the kitchen island. He drops.
Third man has better cover. He's behind the doorframe, weapon trained on my position.
Standoff.
"Remy Pascal," he calls out. Russian accent. "Mr. Lazarev wants to talk."
"Not interested."
"He knows you're planning to hit the facility tomorrow. He has a better offer."
