The Strakh guards freeze, confused, hands out, blinking into nothing.They can’t see a damn thing.They spin, backs to each other, trying to orientate, trying to figure out why the lights went out and who just entered the shop.
My throat closes as I count six goggled men.Military haircuts.Lean builds with zero wasted movement.
“Night vision goggles.”Monty exhales sharply.
“Yes.”Carl nods.“Lightweight tactical vests with holsters and blades mounted at their thighs.Coms in their ears.Matching gear, right down to the boots.”
Each one knows exactly where he’s going.
The guards don’t.
It’s a slaughter.
A hand clamps down.A blade flashes, and the first guard goes slack without a sound.Another drops near the counter, taken from the side before he can even turn his head.
Six against four.
Unfair doesn’t begin to cover it.
The remaining guards reach for their guns, fingers scrabbling at holsters, but the men in goggles are already on them.One disarms.Another strikes low.A third steps in and finishes it.
No gunshots.No yelling.Just bodies folding to the floor in the quiet hum of night-vision static.
It’s over in seconds.
I can’t breathe.
They didn’t come for a fight.They came to clear the room.
“These aren’t street thugs or local muscle.”Monty rubs his nape.
“This was funded and rehearsed,” Carl says.“High-end gear.Military spec.”
I’m going to be sick.The room spins, needles fill my gut, and pain grabs in my chest.
The feed keeps rolling.
Night vision holds steady as the green-hued bodies shift.The six attackers no longer move like predators.They sweep the room, checking pulses and confirming kills.
“They waited until you dropped Dove at the mechanic shop.”Theo pauses the video and compares the time stamps.“See?They timed it to the second, attacking the tattoo parlor right as you were leaving the garage.”
“They knew I would be distracted by what I found at the tattoo shop and moved in on Dove.”I grind my molars.“Organized confusion.”
Theo restarts the recording, and a moment later, Jag bursts into frame with a metal chair in his hands.Shirtless and barefoot, he wears sweatpants that hang lopsided on his hips.
“We put a lock on that break room door.”Carl moves closer.“How did he get out?”
“He would’ve known something was wrong when the power shut off.Probably threw himself through that door.”My breathing quickens.“And we took all his weapons.”
Jag holds the chair like a weapon, his legs braced, head cocked and listening, but the pitch-black gives him nothing.
My stomach buckles with dread.
One of the attackers tears the chair from his grip.Another tries to pin his arm.But Jag fights back, dropping the man with a brutal elbow to the throat.Then he spins and catches another in the face.
It’s chaos.Six against one and still,still, they struggle to take him down.
I bend toward the screen, my hands white-knuckled on the desk.
