The boardroom lights were dimmed to a practical glow, the city beyond the windows a smear of rain-slick color. The long table that had housed corporate duels yesterday now became a battlefield map spread across laptops and printed dossiers. There was no Chairman this morning—only the team, unadorned and efficient, gathered for a single purpose.
Selena sat at the head of the table, arms folded, eyes calm. Her suit was the same tailored black from yesterday, but this time the fabric felt less like armor for board meetings and more like a second skin for the operation. Her presence focused the room the way a pulse steadied a hand.
Selena (cool, businesslike): "We have one window. Two entry points, one main exit. The fixer—name's Morales—meets his buyer at the old riverside warehouse at twenty-two hundred. He's sloppy; he always brings backup. We can't rely on finesse. We need a trap that leaves no loose ends."
Adrian (grinning, leaning forward): "I like the sound of that—no loose ends. Makes things tidy. What's Morales' security like? Gritty muscle or suit-and-tie pragmatists?"
Riley (quick, fingers already dancing on her tablet): "Mostly muscle. Two heavies listed in his file—Roddy and Vargas—both ex-con with a taste for cheap bourbon. Morales trusts them because they're loud. He's paranoid enough to avoid phone calls; he uses dead drops and burner meets. We've intercepted three of his handoffs over the last month."
Park Min-ho (calm, nodding): "Warehouse has one main dock and a side service door. Cameras are old, blind spots near the crates. Good for ambush. I can slip in with Selena from the inside; we look like buyers. She takes Morales when he isolates himself. I cover angles."
Mikhail "Misha" Orlov (gruff, folding a map): "I'll handle the exit and blackout. Power's easy if we time the city grid microdisruption. Van at the northwest alley. If anyone tries to run, they hit my fence. No chase, no witnesses."
Selena's eyes flicked to Adrian last. He had been silent until now, watching the others with that mild half-smile that either meant he'd thought of something clever or trouble. He tapped the table once, thoughtful.
Adrian (measured): "I'll stage the distraction at the docks—car crash, shout, a fight. Pull their muscle away. If Roddy and Vargas take the bait, Morales will be alone. That's when Selena moves."
Selena (flat): "I go in, make contact, take the shot if needed. No theatrics. Single bullet, clean exit. Misha sweeps the exits. Riley feeds us live feeds and pings. Min-ho, you keep the inner perimeter—no surprises."
Riley flicked her tablet screen to show a schematic. The blue dots and red arrows pulsed as she zoomed.
Riley (sharp, efficient): "I've looped the camera feeds we can tap. Two blind spots near the crates—entry and the metal stairs. I'll patch Selena's earpiece with a thermal overlay; I'll call the move when those heavies take Adrian's bait. I'll also spoof the warehouse logs to slow any corporate security ping."
Park Min-ho (dry): "If Morales has new tech, the spoof won't hold long. We need contingency."
Misha (gruff): "Contingency is my shotgun. If anything goes sideways, we light a controlled flashbang that disables electronics for thirty seconds. That's when we vanish. No faces, no prints."
Selena folded her fingers, listening. Her voice was soft but decisive.
Selena:"No civilians. No collateral. We do this surgical. If Morales panics, I neutralize. If he's stubborn, I make sure he can't warn anyone. We extract the emblem pin and any documents. This is not a message—it's a cleanup."
Adrian's smile sharpened into something slightly predatory. He leaned closer, lowering his voice to the hum of the projector.
Adrian (low): "And after the move? We don't leave fingerprints, but we should leave confirmations. A burner drone can take one clean photo of the interior once it's clear. Proof for the Chairman—keeps the numbers quiet."
Riley's hand hovered, then she nodded.
Riley (dry humor): "I'll fly the drone. And no, I won't let it make a selfie with your charming face, Adrian."
Adrian (mock offended): "Rude. I look adorable in black."
Misha snorted but a small grin cracked his normally stony face. The banter was short-lived; they were all professionals first and colleagues second.
Selena slid a single photograph across the table—Morales' face in a close-up, the grin still smug.
Selena (soft, deadly): "He thinks he's untouchable. He's been leaking assets, moving Marcone's product to a buyer we don't recognize. He's sloppy because he's arrogant. That arrogance is his weakness."
Park Min-ho (quiet): "What about backup? Any known local law collusion?"
Riley (shaking her head): "Nothing in the database. No flagged local PD collab, which makes this either a clean syndicate transaction or someone covering their tracks. That emblem pin I flagged last week? No matches."
Adrian's fingers drummed the table. He looked up, eyes assessing, then he tilted his head and said something that cut through Riley's data like a keen blade.
Adrian (considering): "If Morales is smart enough to hide his buyer, he's also smart enough to have an insurance policy. Roddy and Vargas are muscle, yes—but there may be a handler. We find the handler, we find who's buying."
Selena (cool): "Find the handler, we find the chain. But tonight, the chain ends at Morales. We take the pin. We get out. We report minimal casualties."
Riley's screen blinked with a new ping—an odd anomaly in the logs, a whisper of movement in a dead zone.
Riley (concerned): "Guys… I'm seeing a ghost ping near the north dock. Low EM signature—like a tracker placed to watch Morales' meet, but it's bouncing off a disposable satellite ping. Whoever set it knew what they were doing."
Misha's jaw went hard. He tapped a pen against the map, thinking.
Misha (gruff): "That's professional. Not local. That means the buyer has resources."
Park Min-ho (cold): "Or someone above Morales wanted eyes on him. Either way, that complicates extraction."
Selena's jaw tightened but her voice barely rose.
Selena (steady): "Then we adjust. No windows. We execute within the building's blind spots. Adrian's diversion must be more convincing—more violent. It needs to pull any satellite watchers' attention. Misha, your blackout buys us time. Riley, you mute any feeds that could squeal."
Adrian (smirking, confident): "Violent and convincing. My favorite category."
Riley's fingers blurred over her tablet, overlaying thermal maps and signal scrubs. Min-ho checked the edge of his knife with a ritualistic tap, the metal sound sharp in the room.
Riley (focused): "I can loop the warehouse main camera for exactly six minutes. That gives Selena a five-minute window inside to find Morales and the pin. I'll keep an eye on the ghost ping, but if it climbs into anything higher, I'll call an abort."
Selena's gaze cut to each of them, hydraulics of command silently engaging.
Selena (commanding): "We move at twenty-one-thirty. Adrian triggers at twenty-one-fifty-eight. Min-ho and I enter ten minutes early as so-called buyers. Misha positions at the van with extraction and the blackout. Riley, you're eyes. You call it when the heavies leave. One shot, if shot is needed. No mercy if he reaches for a gun. Understood?"
All (in unison): "Understood."
Adrian's grin was all teeth for a heartbeat, then it softened into something else—an eyebrow lift, a look directed only at Selena.
Adrian (half whisper): "You sure you want the honor tonight, Selena?"
Selena (flat, resolute): "I'm the clean hand. I do the cut."
Adrian's gaze held hers a second longer, some unreadable thought flickering across his face. Then he nodded once, professional, satisfied.
Adrian:"Good. Then we all know our roles. No improvisation unless it's to save a life. Marcone wants it clean. We give them clean."
Riley's eyes flicked up from her screen, worry threaded through her competence.
Riley (quiet): "And if that ghost ping is friendly to someone inside Marcone?"
A beat. The room's warmth seemed to drain an inch.
Selena (calm): "Then we do this for ourselves. We get our proof, and we decide who the real enemy is."
The plan sat between them, precise and cold. Outside, the city continued to rain; inside, the team closed ranks, the quiet before the cut sharpening into purpose.
The rain was heavier by the time the team rolled out. The Marcone van—a black, nondescript box on wheels—sat parked in an alley two blocks from the riverside warehouse. Its engine hummed low, the kind of growl that disappeared under the city's constant background noise.
Inside, the air was tight with focus. Weapons laid out on the metal bench: silenced pistols, knives, flashbangs, comms.
Misha Orlov was in the driver's seat, broad shoulders hunched as he adjusted the steering column. His knuckles were pale against the leather wheel. He wasn't nervous—Misha never was—but there was a certain weight in his silence. The Russian preferred to let the job speak for him.
On the bench behind him, Park Min-ho cleaned his pistol with meticulous calm, the same way he handled everything. His sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing faint scars along his arms—old battles, never explained.
Across from him, Riley Carter shifted, restless. Her tablet balanced on her knees, cables running from it to the van's onboard systems. She was chewing gum too fast, the crackle of the snap echoing every few seconds.
And in the middle sat Selena Kang Charlotte, serene in her stillness. Dagger strapped to her thigh, her pistol holstered with an economy of movement. She looked like someone waiting for a board meeting, not an execution.
Adrian Zhao Wei leaned casually in the corner, long legs stretched, toying with a coin between his fingers. That smirk hadn't left his face since they left the boardroom.
The silence stretched until Riley couldn't stand it.
Riley (snapping gum, trying to lighten): "You know, this whole 'ride in silence' thing makes us sound like a funeral procession. Anyone wanna crack a joke? No? Fine, I'll do it. Knock knock."
Misha (gruff, without looking back): "No jokes before kill. Bad luck."
Riley (rolling her eyes): "Of course. The Russian believes in omens. What's next, Misha, you gonna read chicken bones in the alley?"
Misha grunted, which might have been a laugh or a warning. It was hard to tell with him.
Min-ho (calmly, finishing his pistol check): "Focus, Riley. Save the jokes for after extraction."
Riley blew a bubble, then popped it, smirking.Riley:"Fine, fine. Deadly serious. Like Selena."
Selena finally glanced at her, one brow arched, tone as sharp as her blade.Selena (coolly): "Deadly serious keeps us alive."
Adrian chuckled, flipping his coin.Adrian (teasing): "Or maybe deadly serious just hides nerves."
Selena's gaze cut to him, unbothered.Selena (flat): "And your smirk hides what? A death wish?"
The coin stilled in Adrian's hand. He leaned forward just enough, his smirk curling darker.Adrian (low, amused): "Maybe. But at least I'd look good doing it."
For a moment, even Riley shut up. The tension between the two was palpable, humming like live wires in the confined space.
Min-ho cleared his throat, grounding the moment.Min-ho (firm): "Enough. The target is Morales, not each other. We stick to the plan. No deviations."
Selena nodded once, reclaiming command.Selena:"We go in at twenty-one-fifty. Adrian, you move first. Riley, eyes on every feed. Misha, engine running—no delays. Min-ho, with me inside. Remember—fast, clean, silent."
Riley tapped her tablet, confirming.Riley:"Drones are in place. Two at the docks, one circling the north lot. If Morales so much as sneezes, I'll know."
Misha (gruff): "And if he sneezes on you?"
Riley snorted.Riley:"Then you buy me a drink after this, big guy."
Misha's only reply was the sound of the van's ignition settling into a deeper purr.
Selena slipped an earpiece in, her voice quiet, almost too calm.Selena: "When we walk out of here, Morales will be nothing but another ghost in the rain."
Adrian's eyes lingered on her, his smirk softer this time.Adrian (low, almost to himself): "Let's see if the ghost haunts us back."
The van lurched forward, pulling them toward the docks. The rain hit harder, drumming against the roof like a ticking clock.
The mission had begun.
The warehouse loomed against the rain-slick skyline, a hulking skeleton of steel and corrugated iron. Sodium lights buzzed overhead, casting an orange haze across the loading docks. Crates lined the walls like silent witnesses.
The van idled in the shadows of the north alley.
Riley (in comms, whispering): "Target is in. Morales arrived ten minutes early. He's pacing on the mezzanine, talking to one of his heavies. The other's checking crates near the south dock. We've got four civvies inside—dock workers, but they're not armed. They leave in ten."
Misha (gruff, from driver's seat): "Clock's ticking. We move now, or we risk noise."
Selena (cool, calm): "We wait. Adrian, you take the dock in two minutes. Riley, call it when Vargas and Roddy move. Min-ho, with me."
Min-ho gave a curt nod, his face unreadable. Selena adjusted the clasp on her holster, every movement deliberate.
Adrian cracked his neck, tugged on a leather jacket, and slipped into the rain with a grin that belonged to someone born for chaos.
Adrian (into comms, playful): "Showtime."
He strolled across the south dock, casual as a drunk wanderer. Then, with perfect timing, he slammed a crowbar into a crate. Wood splintered, echoing like thunder.
Adrian (shouting): "Hey! This is my turf! Who the hell left their junk here?!"
The shout was just unhinged enough to sell.
From her tablet, Riley's voice tightened.Riley:"Vargas is moving. Roddy too. Both heavies heading for the noise."
Selena's eyes sharpened.Selena (coolly): "That's our gap. Move."
She and Min-ho slid from the shadows, entering the service door Riley had looped. Inside, the warehouse smelled of damp concrete and oil. Selena's heels were silent on the floor, each step precise.
Above them, Morales leaned against a railing, cigarette ember glowing red.
Morales (grumbling, to himself): "Idiots can't even keep a shipment dry…"
Selena's voice was ice.Selena:"You should worry less about the rain. And more about me."
Morales spun, startled. His hand darted toward his jacket—where a pistol glinted.
Min-ho (calm, gun raised): "Don't."
Morales froze, eyes darting between them.
Morales (sneering): "Marcone sent you, didn't they? Figures. They don't like it when someone takes initiative."
Selena stepped forward, expression unreadable.Selena (coolly): "Initiative gets you killed."
She raised her silenced pistol, the barrel steady at Morales' chest.
In her ear, Riley's voice came like static.Riley (urgent): "Selena, wait—ghost ping just flared. Someone else is watching. Unknown party on the north rooftop. They've got a scope on Morales' office."
Adrian's laughter crackled through the comms, breathless between the sounds of scuffle.Adrian (fighting, amused): "Well, isn't that fun? We've got company."
Selena's finger tightened on the trigger. Morales' grin widened, even as sweat beaded at his temple.
Morales (mocking): "Go on. Pull it. But if you do, you'll never know who I was selling to."
The words hung in the air, mixing with the sound of rain hammering the metal roof.
Selena's eyes narrowed, her voice a whisper sharp enough to cut glass.Selena:"I don't need to know. I just need you gone."
The pistol didn't waver.
The warehouse air tasted of rust and wet cardboard. Overhead, the rain hammered like a metronome counting down seconds no one wanted to waste.
Selena's silenced pistol was trained just below Morales' collarbone. Min-ho's weapon was a fraction of an inch away, steady, patient. The world beyond the crates reduced to the narrow circle of light their flashlights carved out—faces, palms, the glint of a cheap watch on Morales' wrist.
Morales (sneering, trying to buy time): "You think Marcone sends lovely girls like you to do their dirty work? Ha. They send kids who don't mind getting their hands wet. You're a neat one, though—pretty. Bet they like that. Makes the—"
He stopped. For one manic heartbeat, he tried to force back a laugh, as if jokes could steady him. Sweat cut pale streaks down his temple. He opened his mouth again, bargaining, panicking, looking for leverage.
Morales (breathless, desperate smile): "—makes the men happy. They pay more for discretion. They pay more for—"
The warehouse hummed: Adrian's staged crash still crackling in the distance, the shouts of hiring muscle bleeding toward the docks, Misha's van engine idling like a sleeping animal. Riley's voice ran in Selena's ear with a soft, urgent whisper, thermal overlays painting the scene.
Riley (through earpiece, low): "Selena—north rooftop target stationary. Unknown scope. I'm pinging their feed—weak signal, bouncing. Could be a drone. Could be a man. Could be both. You've got two minutes tops."
Selena's finger didn't move. She listened to Morales' staccato breathing, to the soft creak of crate wood settling, to the rain. His attempt at levity fell like wet paper. He was trying to talk his way out of a hole he'd dug with every crooked deal.
Morales (flustered, talking faster): "You don't get it. People like me—people on the ground—make Marcone possible. You think the Chairman signs off on everything? We grease the palms. We find buyers. We clean up the mess. You think Marcone would—"
Selena's jaw tightened. The words he spat were small, ugly truths. They were proof—maybe not of the buyer, but of a rotten system. He was trying to name names, to cast blame out into the dark, a last-ditch attempt at relevance.
Min-ho (quiet, a warning): "Stop. Talk less. Move slower."
Morales' mouth moved, relentless. He tasted his last chance for significance.
Morales (fast, greedy): "—they hide behind numbers and lawyers but it's the fixers that make money real. They—"
And he would have gone on. He would have named someone — perhaps a courier, a handler, perhaps something the team could trace. He would have thrown the rope that could hang others. In his panic, he leaned forward, trying to spit out details like currency.
Selena's thumb pressed the leather of the grip until the knuckle whitened. In the metallic hush, her voice was a single calm instrument.
Selena (soft, absolute): "You started a sentence."
His eyes flicked up, confusion and hope mingling there—did she intend to let him finish? Did she want the names? The possibility of leverage made him bolder.
Morales (cautious, greedy): "I—name—"
The report from Riley spiked. Beside the comms, a tiny box pulsed—a new signature, a faint echo of a scope sweep from a rooftop. A shadow shifted along the roofline beyond the warehouse's broken skylight—an almost-imperceptible silhouette.
Riley (urgent, clipped): "Selena—someone's on the north rooftop. They're aligned. That pin you took last week? That emblem just registered on their patch. They know. Abort if you hear a whistle."
Selena's brain catalogued the new data with the speed of habit: a patch, a rooftop watcher, a risk of a broadcast, a chance Morales' name would not only be heard but amplified. If Morales finished his sentence, he might blow the roof off of something none of them were ready to face.
That decision balanced on the edge of her finger. The room contracted into the arc of sight between her barrel and his chest.
Selena (whisper): "You'll finish it for me."
He didn't understand. He tried one last joke, a stammered attempt to retro-fit courage.
Morales (laughing, unsteady): "You'll—ha—you'll—"
The crack of the silenced pistol sounded like the softest thing—almost inaudible in the warehouse's thunder, but sharp enough to pull breath out of anyone's lungs. Morales' grin fell. His hands went slack. The cigarette ember cooled to a dull glow and fell from his fingers.
The bullet entered neat and small, precise, exactly where Selena had aimed: a clean line under the collarbone, severing breath and bargaining in the same instant. Morales' eyes widened, sight bleaching like film under light. His lips formed the last syllable of the word he was trying to say and then nothing.
He slumped forward, blood dark and bright on his shirt, and Min-ho moved like a shadow to catch him before he hit the rough wooden floor. The crate behind Morales thundered as if the world had closed in.
Adrian (over comms, fierce): "Now! Now! Move!"
Outside, Adrian's diversion crescendoed into controlled chaos—metal screamed as a truck collided, men shouted, curses sliced through the rain. Misha's van lights cut a path as he moved, engine growling, ready to swallow them all. Min-ho and Selena worked with machine precision: secure the body, extract the emblem pin from Morales' palm, wipe the surface, bag the gun.
Riley (breathing fast, a thread of fear): "I'm patching the loop now—camera loops are holding. The rooftop signal's getting stronger—someone's amplifying. I can't mask forever. We've got—"
Her voice cut as Misha's practiced hands clapped a makeshift seal over the loading dock exit. The team's movements were swift, efficient, sculpted by repetition. No one hesitated.
Selena tucked the emblem into a small inner pocket beneath her jacket, the metal cold and heavier than she expected. For a breath, she touched it—an instinct more than curiosity—and then shoved the thought away. Questions could wait until they were safe.
They moved like ghosts toward the van—three shadows sliding past crates, slipping into the alley where Misha had the engine waiting. The rain welcomed them, washing the thin prints from their shoes before anyone could track them.
Adrian darted into the alley a beat behind them, rain slicking his hair to his forehead. He grinned, reckless and sharp.
Adrian (breathing hard, fierce): "Beautiful. Clean. You make killing look like art, Selena."
Selena didn't answer. Her chest felt empty, not from satisfaction but from the small, awful knowing that the emblem's presence was a thread—and when someone pulled it, something larger would unravel.
As the van pulled away, Riley's screen flashed one last time: a shadow at the north rooftop edge, arm raised for a signal. For a single frame, they might have seen a face—brief, blurred—a witness who belonged to a network they hadn't expected.
Riley (soft, almost a whisper): "There's a face. I can almost—"
Then the feed hiccupped and went dark, the rooftop swallowed by static. The van sped into the rain, and somewhere above, on a rooftop dripping with water, someone watched the truck vanish and then lowered a hand, still gripping a long, thin rifle.
Selena felt the emblem's weight in her palm like a promise and a threat. She had made the cut. She had closed the sentence. But tonight, the silence after the shot tasted like smoke—sharp, uneasy, and very far from over.