“Screw that,” Boston said, lifting his twin blades. “Don’t need ammo for these.”
Steel flashed once in the low light.
It was true.
Every single one of them were waiting. On edge. Primed.
This was what they did.
This was what they were designed to do.
No hesitation left in the room.
Law took them in—one glance, one measure—then nodded once.
“Go.”
The first body hit the carpet before the echo finished.
Another dropped hard against the wall, leaving a smear as he slid. Gunfire cracked down the hallway—sharp, contained, controlled.
Sage moved through it without breaking stride.
Law was already there—one step ahead, one step to the side—covering angles Sage didn’t have to think about. Black and Micah closed in tight behind them, formation instinctive, practiced.
No hesitation. No calls.
Just movement.
A man staggered out of a side corridor, weapon half-raised.
He didn’t get the shot off.
This shit was unreal.
Not only had Daniel Voss brought his own men, but he’d also hired muscle. Mercenaries. The air tasted like smoke and metal, thick at the back of Sage’s throat.
Sage slipped his knife from the sheath at his back. He’d run out of ammo a few moments ago. The weight of the blade settled into his palm—familiar, steady.
Footsteps pounded somewhere below, echoing up through the structure.
“We’ll take the other set of stairs,” Black said.
“Stay dark.”
Black nodded, and Micah gave Sage a brief, tight hug. Micah’s grip was quick, firm—heat and pressure, gone too fast.
“Be careful,” Sage whispered. His voice barely carried past them.
“You too,” Micah whispered back and followed after Black.
The high-rise had stairs on every side. Which was a good thing, but made coverage that much harder.
They were stretched thin. Too many angles. Not enough bodies.
A few room doors stood open. Some with the occupants dead or wounded. Blood hit sharp in the air, copper and thick.
Elevators were out. Dead. Silent.
