Detonators slide into place with practiced ease. Wireless triggers synced to my remote, a built-in delay programmed into the sequence. My standard safety margin, long enough to clear the blast radius but short enough that targets can't defuse in time.
"Charges set," I say into the comm. "Beginning extraction."
That's when the alarms start screaming.
Red emergency lights strobe through the storage section. Klaxons blaring loud enough to wake the dead. Someone in security just realized we're here.
"Contact!" Van der Berg's voice cuts through the comm. "Multiple hostiles converging on your position. Get out now!"
Gunfire erupts from somewhere in the facility. Automatic weapons fire echoing through corridors.
"Move!" I grab Isabella's arm, pull her toward the exit. Luc's already ahead, weapon up, clearing our route.
The interior patrol converges on the storage section. Four men in tactical gear, weapons already coming up as they clear the doorway with professional precision. They clock us immediately. No hesitation, no warning, just muzzles tracking toward center mass.
The first shots crack out before I can shout a warning.
Rounds punch through refrigerated units. Glass shattering, chemicals hissing as seals break. I return fire, dropping the first guard with two rounds center mass. Blood sprays across pharmaceutical labels. Luc takes the second with a headshot that drops him like a puppet with cut strings.
Two down. Two still shooting.
I put three rounds into the third guard's chest. Watch him stagger, try to raise his weapon, collapse. The fourth tries to dive for cover. Luc's round catches him mid-dive, throat shot that sends him choking and dying behind a storage unit.
Van der Berg's team opens up with suppressing fire from somewhere outside. Heavy weapons tear through the facility's exterior walls, punching fist-sized holes that let in cold night air and sodium light. Creating chaos, drawing attention away from our position.
"North exit!" I shout into the comm. "We need extraction now!"
We hit the corridor at a dead run, Isabella's footsteps pounding between mine and Luc's. More guards ahead, blocking our route to the north exit. I count six hostiles, all armed, allmoving with the kind of coordinated precision that gets people killed.
Professional killers. A tactical response team, not warehouse security.
Good. I prefer it when they know what they're doing. Makes it cleaner.
I drop the first guard with a controlled burst, the weapon's recoil familiar against my shoulder. He goes down hard. Second guard tries to dive for cover. My rounds catch him mid-movement, spinning him into a storage rack that crashes over with him. Luc takes the third with a headshot that paints the wall behind him.
Three down in as many seconds.
But there are too many. They're spreading out, using the corridor's width to flank us, trying to box us in. Standard tactical response. They know what they're doing.
So do we.
A round cracks past my ear, close enough I feel the displacement of air. Isabella flinches but keeps moving, trusting me to keep her alive. Another burst stitches across the wall to our left, concrete dust blooming in the air.
"Alternate route!" Luc shouts over the gunfire. "Loading dock!"
We pivot hard, Isabella stumbling slightly before I catch her vest and haul her forward. Running toward the east side where Van der Berg's team is supposed to be maintaining extraction vehicles. She keeps pace between us, breathing hard, feet slapping concrete in rhythm with the gunfire echoing through the facility.
The smell of gunfire is thick now, mixing with chemical fumes from ruptured containers. My ears ring from rounds echoing off concrete walls. Every breath tastes like smoke and adrenaline.
The loading dock opens up ahead. Van der Berg's vehicles are visible through the bay doors, his team laying down suppressing fire that keeps Iron Choir security pinned behind shipping equipment. Muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness. Brass casings scatter across concrete.
We're nearly clear, maybe ten meters from the vehicles, when Lazarev steps into view.
Automatic weapon raised, expensive suit replaced with tactical gear, eyes locked on me with recognition that turns my blood cold. Not from fear, but from the dark satisfaction of finally getting to finish what Yemen started.
"Pascal," he says in Russian-accented English. "Right on schedule."
I raise my weapon, finger on the trigger, calculating the shot. "Get out of the way."
