The bay light went green and the side door slid open.
The winter night punched into the cabin, and the cold hit him like a steel-toed boot. Sharp and unforgiving. It was the kind of cold that penetrated leather and went straight to the bone.
They dropped to the roof in a practiced flow, boots crunching on ice and gravel.
An armored black Navigator—with windows tinted so dark they looked like mirrors—was waiting in the alley at the stairwell’s access door.
Two weapons specialists, a mission’s coordinator, and their stealth tactics leads from each field team jogged past them, wheeling gear crates.
They’d establish the staging hub in the gutted building to run overwatch and help get them out if shit went south.
“Transports loaded. I have access to the city’s mainframe. Spectre’s running flank,” Corvo said in their ears. “The AO is live. Mission code reads green-zero. Black and Browns are full-command active. All auxiliary teams stand by in shadow protocol.”
Ex chuckled as he yanked open the back door and slid in. Green-zero meant it was a green light on the mission, but there was zero risk, threat, or danger.
Grace and Mirage took the third row, and Meridian folded his long frame into the seat beside his partner.
The neighborhoods were run-down, the homes and businesses painted in a depressing shade of gray and poverty.
Every other house lining the block had either bowed porches, boarded windows, bullet holes in the siding, or ten-foot leaning chain-link fences in an attempt to keep out burglars.
Meridian watched it pass as he thought about a gang that would rather shoot up their own run-down neighborhood than help clean it up.
“Violence has rules…purpose. This is just tantrums with casualties,” he noted quietly.
Spectre clicked in. “The pool hall is two blocks out. It’s well-known King’s territory and only South Side is allowed inside.”
Grace brushed his big hand across Mirage’s shoulder, asking a silent Ready? Mirage didn’t answer aloud, just barely tilted his hooded head.
Meridian’s pulse slowed as his focus sharpened.
The Navigator turned onto a narrower street. The pool hall was a low brick building with blacked-out windows and red-and-black graffiti crowns on the walls.
A speaker above the entrance thumped bass hard enough to rattle the glass of their SUV.
Two men leaned against the door, smoking weed. One had a shotgun, the other had two Glocks in his waistband as if that and his red bandanna made him dangerous.
“Let us out at the corner,” Meridian said.
The driver rolled to a smooth stop. They spilled out, one after the other, pulling their hoods up.
They were four immaculately dressed men who didn’t belong in this state, nevertheless on this block.
The shotgun guard clocked them about ten yards away, the second one pushed off the door, shoving his hand deep into his coat.
“You seein’ this?” Ex murmured, amused.
“At least they have good instincts.” Mirage shrugged.
“Just get rid of them and get inside,” Spectre said boredly.
They didn’t pick up speed or slow down.
At five yards, the guard with the shotgun held up a palm. “Yo. This is King’s house, so leave now and—”
Mirage’s hands flashed forward and two silver arcs cut through the darkness like shooting stars.
The blades sliced through the air, crossing in a wicked X mid-flight, before driving hilt-deep into the throats of the two guards with a grotesque, wet schlick.
