The docks had been a pipeline for illegal arms for months now, weapons moving from foreign ports into the hands of radicals and criminals. I'd been tracking the shipments, following the trail, waiting for the right moment.
Tonight felt right.
The warehouse cameinto view fifteen minutes later, squatting on the waterfront like a rotting tooth. Broken windows. Rusted siding. The smell of oil and river water and something metallic underneath, like old blood. I killed the engine three blocks out and ditched the bike in an alley behind a row of abandoned shops, pulling the bow from its case and slinging the quiver across my back.
Thirty arrows. More than enough.
I'd never needed more than thirty.
I approached from the south side, using the shadows and the rain for cover. The perimeter was weak. Two guards outside, smoking and bitching about the weather. Both armed with pistols, holstered. Not expecting trouble.
Amateurs.
I scaled the fire escape on the building next door, boots finding purchase on slick metal rungs. The roof gave me a vantage point. I crouched low at the edge, scanning the warehouse through the broken skylight.
Eight men inside. Maybe nine. Hard to tell with all the crates stacked up like a maze. They were unloading something from a truck, moving fast, working in pairs. Military rhythm. These weren't amateurs.
I caught a glimpse of what they were handling.
Assault rifles. Military-grade, from the look of them. Stamped with Cyrillic letters I couldn't read from this distance but recognized from intelligence briefs I'd stolen from my father's study.
One of the men laughed, his voice carrying up through the broken glass. “Double shipment next week. Boss says the rally's going to get bloody.”
Another voice, deeper. “About damn time. Tired of waiting around while these royals piss on us from their palaces.”
My jaw clenched.
They were planning something. Something big. Something that would end with blood on London streets and my father standingover more bodies, making speeches about unity while people burned.
Not tonight.
Not on my watch.
I drew an arrow, nocking it smooth and silent. The bowstring creaked, a sound I'd memorized, a sound that felt like home. I sighted down the shaft, compensating for wind and rain and the angle. The man closest to the truck had his back to me, rifle slung over his shoulder.
Armed. Dangerous. Planning to kill people.
Fair game.
I released.
The arrow punched through his spine between the shoulder blades. He dropped without a sound, crumpling like his strings had been cut. The rifle clattered to the concrete.
The warehouse erupted.
“Shit! We're under attack!”
“Where? Where is he?”
“Find him! Now!”
I was already moving. Drew. Aimed. Released. Another man went down with an arrow through his throat. Blood sprayed across the crates, dark and arterial. He clutched at the shaft, gurgling, and collapsed.
Two down.
I dropped through the skylight, boots hitting the top of a crate with a dull thud. Glass rained around me. Someone shouted. I was already drawing again, spinning, firing. The arrow caught a man in the chest as he raised his rifle. He fired wild, bullets stitching across the ceiling, and then he was down.
Three.
