A door opens on our right. Two guards, weapons coming up. I drop into a crouch, fire twice, roll left as return fire chips the wall where my head was. Dante flanks, takes the second. They fall.
My pulse is flat. My hands don’t shake.
Every other job, I’ve been empty. The violence mechanical. The kills logged like entries in a ledger. Debts paid, problems solved, nothing that stays with me past the debrief. I’ve walked out of rooms like this a hundred times and felt nothing.
Tonight is different.
She’s in this building. Every round I fire means one less body between us. Every door I clear brings the distance down. I’m not fighting like a weapon tonight.
I’m fighting like a man who has something to lose.
We hit a junction. Marco signals left. Three hostiles ahead. I take point, Dante on my six. The first hostile sees us too late. The fraction of a second where his brain catches up to what his eyes are telling him, and in that fraction I’m already pulling the trigger. The second gets a shot off that goes wide. I feel the air move past my ear, close enough that a different angle kills me, and I don’t hesitate, don’t flinch, because hesitation is for men who aren’t certain where they’re going. The third tries to run.
None of them make it.
The taste of gunpowder coats my tongue. Copper underneath it. My ears are ringing.
Keep moving.
“Operations center ahead,” Marco says. “Heavy presence. At least eight, maybe more.”
Eight. Good.
We stack on the door. Dante meets my eyes. Nods.
I kick it in.
The room erupts. Muzzle flash and shouting and the deafening crack of gunfire in an enclosed space. I’m already moving before the door finishes swinging, into the chaos instead of away from it, because the men who freeze are the men who die and I am not dying tonight.
Two down. Pivot. Third coming up on my left. Dante takes him before I have to, which is the only thing I’m grateful for tonight because I don’t have the patience for anything that slows me down.
Fourth and fifth behind overturned furniture, laying down suppressive fire. I advance anyway. Take a round to the vest that knocks the breath clean out of me, ribs screaming, the impact like a fist swung by something with no intention of stopping.
Cazzo.
I don’t stop.
Return fire, controlled pairs, fourth goes down. Marco flanks the fifth, puts two in his back. Three more in the far corner. One of them has a radio, screaming for backup. I cross the distance in three strides. Not running, not rushing, just closing space the way water fills a hole. Inevitable. I silence him with a knife. Cleaner. The blade slides between his ribs. He folds.
The other two put their weapons down.
Too slow.
When the room goes quiet, I’m breathing hard. The vest took the impact but my ribs are a wall of heat. I’ll feel that for a week. I’ll feel it every time I breathe and I don’t care. I’ll feel it while she’s in front of me. I’ll feel it when she’s safe.
I’ll feel it when I can finally stop moving.
“Clear,” Dante calls.
“East corridor.” Marco, already moving. “Basement access is through the next section.”
We push forward. Marco keeps us oriented. Turn here. Stairs there. Two more hostiles in a side corridor, handled quickly. No ceremony, no hesitation, just the work. Each floor down brings me closer.
We hit the stairwell to the basement level when Nico cuts through the comms.
“We’ve got another one.”
“Another what?” Dante responds.
