Chapter 72: A Blade in the Dark
The hours blurred together as Fred, Mira, and Ronan sat hunched over a cracked wooden table deep within the underground labyrinth.
Maps, photographs, and coded messages were scattered across the surface. Every minute detail of Selene's network was analyzed, dissected, torn apart.
Mira's fingers traced routes through the city with surgical precision. "Her shipment moves tonight—arms and forged documents for her black-market allies. If we intercept it, we cripple her ability to arm her private forces."
Fred leaned in, studying the map. The convoy would snake through the industrial zone just before dawn—a weak point when the city was still asleep and alertness was at its lowest.
"How guarded?" Fred asked.
Mira shrugged. "Six vehicles. Thirty men minimum. Two snipers. Maybe more."
Ronan snorted. "Sounds cozy."
Fred narrowed his eyes. "We'll need to be surgical. No grand firefights. Quiet. Fast. Invisible."
The plan was brutal in its simplicity: hit the convoy in a narrow bottleneck between warehouses, disable the trucks, extract the cargo, and disappear before Selene could react.
But simple plans had a way of turning into bloodbaths when reality got involved.
--
Just before the sun began to smear the horizon with sickly colors, Fred and Ronan moved into position on the rooftop overlooking the industrial street.
Mira stayed hidden nearby, her role critical—jam communications, disable alarms, and coordinate the escape.
Fred's heart thudded in his chest as he adjusted the sight on his suppressed rifle. Through the scope, he saw the convoy approaching—headlights cutting ghostly beams through the pre-dawn fog.
He clicked his comm once.
Ronan, crouched lower on the adjacent rooftop, clicked back.
Mira's voice came over their earpieces, calm and sharp: "Thirty seconds. Jamming active. Execute on my mark."
Fred steadied his breathing, locked onto the lead driver's head.
"Mark."
A single muffled shot cracked the silence, and the lead truck veered wildly, crashing into a stack of metal drums.
Panic rippled through the convoy, but before they could organize, Fred and Ronan were already moving.
Flashbangs arced through the air, exploding in bursts of light and sound.
The guards stumbled, disoriented.
Fred dropped two with quick shots. Ronan hurled himself into a brawl with a third, his fists merciless.
They worked like phantoms—striking, vanishing, reappearing.
No time to think. Only instincts and blood.
Mira's voice guided them through the chaos. "Truck three—secured. Move to extraction."
Fred sprinted, adrenaline drowning out fear. He wrenched open the back of the truck and saw crates—dozens of them—filled with guns, explosives, and forged documents that could topple entire institutions if placed in the wrong hands.
They had it.
They had struck the first real blow.
But just as Fred climbed into the driver's seat to move the truck, he felt it.
The hair on the back of his neck rising.
A presence.
---
A shadow peeled itself from the alley and moved toward them with terrifying speed.
Fred swung his weapon around, but he was too slow.
A figure clad in dark armor, face hidden behind a smooth featureless mask, slammed into him with bone-breaking force, knocking him out of the truck and onto the asphalt.
Ronan roared, charging the figure, but a vicious backhand sent him sprawling into a pile of debris.
Fred scrambled to his feet, chest heaving. The masked figure drew two short blades—black, gleaming.
This wasn't one of Selene's regular men.
This was something else.
Fred dodged a strike meant to open his throat, parried a second blow that cut a shallow line across his ribs.
Pain flared, but he forced himself to stay on his feet.
If he went down now, it was over.
The figure moved with unnatural precision—too fast, too disciplined. Every attack forced Fred back, inch by inch.
He realized grimly:
This was no random enforcer.
This was an assassin.
Sent specifically for him.
Mira's panicked voice crackled in his ear. "Fred, fall back! I'm bringing the van—thirty seconds!"
Thirty seconds.
An eternity against a killer like this.
---
Fred ducked under a slashing blade and drove his shoulder into the figure's gut, trying to unbalance them.
It barely worked.
The assassin stumbled half a step before counterattacking viciously, a knife slicing toward Fred's eye.
He twisted, feeling the blade graze his temple.
Blood ran into his eye, but he refused to fall.
In the distance, Fred heard the screech of tires—Mira's van hurtling toward them.
The assassin seemed to sense the change. Their strikes became more desperate, more violent.
Fred gambled everything on one final move.
He baited an overhand slash, twisted inside the assassin's guard, and slammed a hidden knife into the gap between armor plates at the figure's side.
A grunt of pain.
The assassin staggered—only for a moment—but it was enough.
The van skidded to a halt.
Mira threw open the side door.
"Fred! NOW!"
He didn't hesitate.
Grabbing Ronan by the collar, Fred heaved him into the van, then leapt in himself as bullets sparked off the concrete around them.
Mira hit the gas, tires shrieking, as the masked assassin faded into the mist behind them—watching, silent, bleeding, but very much alive.
---
As they tore away into the city, Fred lay panting on the van floor, staring up at the ceiling.
The victory felt hollow.
They had struck Selene.
But someone else had entered the game.
Someone just as deadly.
Fred wiped blood from his face and sat up, meeting Mira's grave eyes in the rearview mirror.
"They know we're coming," he said.
Mira nodded. "And next time, they won't just send one."
Fred clenched his fists, rage simmering in his gut.
They were no longer the hunters.
They were the hunted.
And the web was tightening around their throats.
---