The armory smells of gun oil, sweat, and impending death. It’s a sharp, metallic scent that coats the back of my throat and settles deep in my lungs. Around me, twenty of the Nikolaides elite guard are checking their gear.
Click-clack. The sound of slides racking and magazines locking into place is a rhythmic, terrifying percussion that echoes off the concrete walls.
Stavros stands in the center of the chaos, outlining the breach plan on a whiteboard. He looks calm. Too calm. It’s the stillness of a hurricane eye before the winds tear the world apart.
"We hit the perimeter at 0250," he says, drawing a red line through the schematic of the safehouse where Elena is being held. "Silent approach. We blow the doors at 0300 exactly."
He looks at my brothers. "Nikos, you take the east wall.
