“Twelve hours,” Ace agrees, as Xavier answers. “Then we bring her home.”
Eleven hours and twenty-seven minutes. That’s how long it takes Felix to call us back with the location. Every minute feels like torture—like someone carving away pieces of my soul with a dull blade.
“I’ve confirmed Volkov’s position,” Felix says through the speaker. His voice is clipped, professional. “They’re holding her at the Northside Steel complex in the industrial district. Abandoned warehouse, building six.”
Ace leans over the phone, his knuckles white against the countertop. “Security?”
“Heavy. I count fourteen armed guards on perimeter rotation. Another eight inside, based on thermal imaging. Military-grade weapons. Multiple entry points, all watched. They’ve got motion sensors covering the blind spots.”
My chest tightens. “Keira?”
A pause. “Confirmed alive. Second floor, northwest corner. Two guards with her always.”
“Chances?” Ace asks.
“With just the two of you?” Felix doesn’t bother hiding his concern. “It’s a suicide mission. Even with your skills. You’d need a small army to breach that perimeter without taking casualties.”
I look up, meeting Ace’s eyes across the table. Something passes between us—something ancient and terrible. The same silent vow we made at fifteen, standing over the cooling corpse of Handler Seventeen.
“Then we make it a massacre,” I say flatly.
No emotion colors my voice. This isn’t rage anymore. This is a cold and focused intent. The killing calm I was trained to find.
Ace nods once. “We’ll need the surveillance truck for this.”
“I’ll have it ready in thirty,” Felix confirms. “But you should know?—”
“Thank you, Felix,” Ace interrupts, ending the call.
The drive back to the penthouse passes in silence. Ace’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel while my leg bounces with barely contained energy. The blood rushing in my ears sounds like screaming—like Keira screaming. I shake the thought away.
We take the private elevator straight to the top floor. The moment the doors open, we’re moving like two parts of one lethal machine.
“Weapons first,” Ace says, heading toward our armory.
I follow, my body humming with a feral energy that needs release. “I want the Russian combat knives. The serrated ones.”
“Take them. And the Glock 19s. Silencers.” Ace pulls tactical vests from a cabinet and lays them on the center table. “Ceramic plates. Flash grenades. Smoke.”
My hands move automatically, checking magazines, loading ammunition.
“Comms,” Ace continues, tossing me an earpiece. “Felix is monitoring their frequencies. We’ll know if they move her.”
I catch the device one-handed. “I’ll take point on the entry. You handle the security systems.”
Our phones buzz simultaneously. Xavier’s name appears on both screens.
Ace answers, putting it on speaker. “Sir.”
“My office in thirty minutes,” Xavier’s voice is steel. “I’ve assembled a team. Six men. Best I have. Felix called me,” Xavier continues, as if reading our thoughts. “He works for me, gentlemen. Always has.”
The realization hits me—Felix has been Xavier’s eyes and ears all along. Monitoring us while providing support. We should have known that, considering the Blackwood Brothers run this city.
“The team will follow your lead,” Xavier says. “No questions asked. Kozlov crossed a line. This response needs to be... definitive.”
“Thank you,” I say, the words strange in my mouth. Gratitude isn’t something I often feel toward our employer.
“Thirty minutes,” Xavier repeats before hanging up.