“The stairs are to the left,” Sophia says, her voice barely above a breath.
I don’t wait for instructions. I press Sophia against the side wall of the elevator, my stance firm, protective. Maria steps next to her. I plant myself opposite them, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the gap between the elevator doors. If anyone is waiting, they might assume the space is empty—maybe enough of a delay to give us a chance.
The doors slide open. Sophia’s gaze meets mine, wide and unguarded. We’re exposed. I hold my breath, waiting for the first sign of movement from the darkened room beyond. Nothing. Silence.
The doors begin to close. At the last possible moment, I slam my hand out, stopping them.
Stepping forward, I hold a hand up, signaling the women to wait. Every muscle in my body tightens. My shoes scrape softly against the polished wood floor. I move inch by inch, ears straining, picking up the slightest shift in the air. Shadows cling to corners, but nothing stirs. The door to the room beyond remains shut.
“We’re good,” I finally whisper, relief threading through me. My eyes sweep over them, making sure they feel it too.
“Does this mean we’re safe?” Maria asks, her voice is low, and unsure.
“No. It means they aren’t as cautious as me,” I reply, my gaze scanning the space again.
The room is set up like a theatre: raised chairs facing a large television mounted on the wall, bookcases on either side filled with novels and trinkets. To the left, a bar stocked with spirits gleams under the soft lighting. To the right, a popcorn machine hisses quietly, with packets of candy and bars of chocolate piled nearby.
Sophia glides past me to the television and presses a button. One of the bookcases shudders and slides forward, revealing a hidden room beyond.
“Are you coming?” she asks.
I follow her inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The small room smells faintly of oil and metal. It’s tight, crowded, but meticulously organized.
Rows of weapons line the walls—guns of every size and type, each with a purpose. My fingers twitch, itching to touch them, to feel their weight.
There are Glocks in various calibers, sleek and deadly, ready to spit rounds with frightening precision. Next to them, compact pistols—easily hidden, quick to draw, but lethal at close range. Machine guns hang from brackets above, their barrels long and cold, capable of tearing through a room in seconds. Shotguns sit low, in the shelves, perfect for clearing halls or enforcing territory.
Boxes of ammunition are stacked neatly, each labeled: 9mm, .45, 5.56, .308. Knives in sheaths glint under the low light, from standard combat knives to serrated survival blades. And then there are the more unusual pieces: a crossbow tucked into a corner, silencers lined up on a shelf, and a handful of small revolvers with a finish so polished they almost seem ceremonial.
I run my gaze over everything again, noting which ones would be fastest in my hands. The Glock in .45, light enough for quick flicks, heavy enough to keep recoil manageable. An Uzi leaning in the corner—small, compact, lethal if the situation turns chaotic. The AR-15 is loaded and ready, its stock adjusted perfectly for whoever trained here. Every piece tells a story: calculated, prepared and very lethal.
Sophia tilts her head, watching me. “You like what you see?”
I smirk, keeping my voice low. “I like that someone’s planning for more than just dinner and drinks.” My eyes flick back tothe shadows at the doorway. “But I still don’t trust the silence. Whoever killed the men at the gate, must have a plan.”
The air feels thick, almost electric, as the women each pick a gun. My fingers brush against cold metal as I lift a Glock and a pump-action shotgun from the racks. I slide bullets and shells into the pockets of my coat.
“You should each take a smaller pistol,” I say, keeping my voice low, “and hide it on your person, along with bullets for reloading. You don’t want to be caught without ammo if it hits the fan.”
Maria nods, eyes sharp, and grabs a compact 9mm. She tucks it into the back pocket of her jeans. Sophia drapes a strap over her shoulder and hooks it onto a shotgun, the barrel resting heavy against her side. She grabs a box of shells, shoving some into her pockets, before picking up a small Walter PPK and sliding it into the back of her jeans.
“You sure you can handle that?” I ask, nodding toward the shotgun balanced against her chest.
Her smirk is confident, even under the low light. “Recoil is a bitch,” she says, testing the weight with a tilt of her shoulder, “but yes, I’ll be fine.”
I glance at them, noting the way they move—the way Maria’s fingers brush the trigger lightly, almost ritualistic, and the way Sophia’s shoulders tense and relax, readying herself. The small details matter. Every twitch, every micro-movement could be the difference between getting out clean or not.
I check the ammo one more time, feeling the reassuring click of cartridges sliding into the magazine. The Glock’s grip fits perfectly in my hand, the shotgun’s pump familiar under my fingers. I glance at the women again. They’re ready—or as ready as anyone can be.
“You know,” I say, smirking despite the tension, “if anyone tries something, they’re going to regret it.”
Maria raises an eyebrow, a ghost of a grin on her lips. “We’ve got this, right?”
“Right,” I say, though worry gnaws at me for both women.
“Which way do we go? The elevator or the stairs?” Sophia asks, her voice tight.
“The elevator,” I answer without hesitation.
