The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a fortress of glass and gold, crawling with the world's elite and at least forty undercover security contractors. Elara Vance moved through the crowd like a predator in Dior. Her floor-length crimson gown was backless, revealing a faint, jagged scar on her shoulder blade—a souvenir from a job in Prague that she usually kept hidden.
She wasn't here for the champagne. She was here for the "Solstice Drive," a thumb-sized piece of hardware containing encryption keys for the global power grid.
"Target sighted at ten o'clock," a voice crackled in her ear.
Elara didn't flinch. She knew that voice. It was smooth, arrogant, and currently making her blood boil. Julian Thorne was standing by the Roman statues, looking like a god himself in a charcoal tux. They hadn't spoken since the betrayal in Marrakesh eighteen months ago.
"You're out of your depth, Thorne," Elara murmured into her hidden mic, taking a flute of Moët from a passing waiter. "This is my contract. Go home."
"And let you take all the heat?" Julian's voice dropped an octave, sending a traitorous shiver down her spine. "I'm the only one who knows the exit codes, Elara. We do this together, or we both end up in a federal black site."
Before she could retort, the world went cold.
The heavy oak doors of the ballroom burst open. Men in tactical gear, faces hidden by matte-black masks, swarmed in. They weren't security. They were the Vipers—mercenaries who didn't care about collateral damage.
The Action Begins
The first shot shattered a crystal chandelier directly above the buffet. Screams erupted as thousands of shards rained down like lethal diamonds.
"Down!" Julian was suddenly there, his hand firm on the small of her back, shoving her behind a marble pedestal.
"I had it handled!" Elara hissed, reaching under the slit of her dress. She didn't pull out a lipstick; she pulled out a customized sleek, matte-black handgun.
"Sure you did," Julian deadpanned. He drew his own weapon, checking the silencer. "On three, we make for the North Gallery. Don't get shot—it'll ruin the dress, and I happen to think you look breathtaking."
"Shut up, Julian."
They moved in perfect, lethal synchronicity. Elara provided cover fire, her shots precise and rhythmic. She didn't miss. Julian moved like a shadow, clearing the hallway with brutal efficiency.
As they reached the heavy steel doors of the vault, Julian pinned her against the wall—not out of aggression, but to shield her from a spray of gunfire that chewed up the drywall inches from his head.
Their faces were inches apart. The scent of gunpowder and his expensive sandalwood cologne filled her senses. For a split second, the chaos of the room vanished. His eyes, dark and intense, searched hers.
"Still hate me?" he whispered, the sound of reloading magazines echoing down the hall.
"More than ever," she breathed, though her hand lingered on his chest a second too long.
"Good. Saves us the trouble of being polite."
Julian punched the override code into the vault. The heavy door hissed open, but as they stepped inside, a thermal grenade rolled across the floor toward them.
"Run!"