Ryker's POV
The warehouse smelled of stale diesel and power. My body readied itself , instincts honed through years of blood and betrayal. I held my gun at eye level, a surrogate gaze calibrated for precision and lethal finality.
Raccoon stood beside me. His usual silent composure was taut, alert. He whispered just once:They’ve been using it as a transit.
No need for elaboration. The moment I turned the corner, trouble confronted us. A row of armed guards mulled near crates, their hands reaching for their weapons as we stepped closer.
They didn’t even see the flash as my finger tightened and I smacked steel spit across the first man’s jaw. His head snapped back, his neck arched, the gun flying from his limp fingers tensing the second before he could move.
The air thickened with gunpow
