The moment stood tense.
Law’s gaze moved—fast, sharp. Taking it in. The open entry door. The hallway beyond, dimmer than it should’ve been.
His breath paused for a fraction, body aligning before the reason caught up.
He squinted, holding up a finger. Everyone froze.
The room listened with him.
He moved to the edge of the doorway, getting a view of the elevator down the line, stainless steel catching a warped reflection of movement.
His stance shifted a fraction, weight settling into readiness.
Sage was glued to his side, eyes already tracking the same space.
Close enough that neither of them had to look to know where the other was.
“This place isn’t clean,” Boston hissed low.
“Voss has reach,” Sage murmured.
Calmly. Certain.
No hesitation. No doubt.
Law didn’t question it, he didn’t need proof. Sage was the proof.
His body was already moving with the decision, no lag between thought and action.
“Positions,” Law ordered low.
Someone cut the lights.
The group moved.
Not scrambling—placing themselves. Frost with Seth on his flank, sinking into shadows, Boston blades up out of sight, Mac checking ammo and moving to flank the other side of the doorway with Noah.
The room locked down around him, every movement precise, contained, ready.
The elevator chimed, but not on their floor.
The sound carried slightly down the hall, hollow—a muffled whomp, whomp.
Too slow. Too deliberate.
Everything in him went still, held in that split second before impact.
A second later, the front glass across their common area blew inward.
“Fuck yeah—let’s move,” Frost growled, slamming a fresh magazine into his weapon as he stepped out of the dark.
Seth slipped out beside him. “Let’s keep this clean.”
Frost’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Too late for that.”
“Ammo?” Law asked, already looking to Mac.
Mac gave a short shake of his head. “Not enough for a long fight.”
