A two-stage dart with an instant knockdown agent, followed by a slow-release sedative that would keep them out cold long past extraction.
He had a six-round dispenser, none to waste on a miss.
He fired all of them— the pops no louder than a breath—in rapid succession.
He dropped the guards first, and they went down harder than drugged elephants.
The disloyal American tried to speak, his eyes blown wide, as he slumped sideways in his chair.
The cartel lord surged halfway up in an attempt to fight through the fog.
Scar squatted, watching the man’s eyes roll behind his lids before his spine gave and he folded to the carpet.
“You better be glad my partner’s a saint. Otherwise, I would’ve put two bullets in the back of your skull and not lost a wink of sleep tonight.”
Scar began rummaging through the American’s bag. He found the disk and made the swap.
“Swap complete.” Scar said.
“Copy that,” Command answered.
He paused at the sound of boots, heavy and purposeful, coming his way.
His comm clicked.
Roz’s voice was clear and composed like a handler’s should be.
“Saint. You got four moving in his direction.”
“Hard copy,” Gage answered calmly.
Scar’s heart pounded at the thought of Gage fighting four drug lord guards, but he stayed focused on gathering the rest of the intel.
He trusted Gage, and his partner had proven time and again that he didn’t need saving.
White Ravens
Gage
“Four targets, twenty feet and closing,” Roz instructed.
Gage stood motionless and listened, shutting his body down—his breath, his pulse, even the rhythm of his heart—until it went quiet enough to hear his environments rhythm.
He could hear four sets of footsteps in the hallway near the room Scar was raiding.
Gage angled his head and let the corridor describe them.
He timed their cadences, assessing each man by the way their boots hit the carpet.
One moved with long, sluggish strides that landed hard—meant the man was tall and muscular. He’d probably fight with his brawn, instead of wits.
The two in the back were lighter on their feet, strides even longer than their leader’s. They were tall and lithe, the kind of men who utilized their speed in a fight.
The lone one on the left had clipped steps that were close together and aggressive. He was in a crew of giants, suffering from a short-man complex. He’d fight with misplaced, projected anger trying to prove himself.
Gage kept his back pressed to the wall, reached into his pocket, removed his Sound Ghost Beads, and scattered them a few feet in front of him.
Roz counted them down. “Contact in four, three, two,… ”
