Not muscle.
Training.
The man didn’t hesitate on the step—didn’t check his corners.
He already knew where they’d be.
Sage’s grip tightened.
“Voss’s, man,” he said low.
Above them, another figure shifted—just a glimpse between levels before disappearing again.
They weren’t pushing.
They were holding.
Waiting for the space to close.
Sage felt it lock into place.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “He’s got us flanked.”
Sage put a hand on Law’s arm when he raised his weapon.
“Hang on,” he whispered for Law’s ears alone.
The assassin on the stairs smirked and pressed a finger to his ear.
“Got them, boss.”
The man stepped forward, gun raised.
“All with your pants down and out of ammo,” he sneered.
Law put a bullet between the fucker’s eyes.
“Saved one for you.”
The shot dropped him where he stood.
Behind them, everything snapped loose—Mac, Noah, and Sage moved as one as the other two assassins went down just as fast.
Sage glanced at the bodies at their feet.
“Now what?”
Law didn’t answer.
Another shot cracked from below, closer than before, the sound driving up through the stairwell and biting off the metal railing near Mac with a sharp ring that lingered in the confined space.
The vibration traveled up through the soles of his boots.
The group tightened instinctively, bodies dropping just enough to break the line.
Above them, boots shifted—weight adjusting, repositioning—not rushing, not pressing, just there.
The sound carried clean through the concrete.
