Six
The message arrived without ceremony.
Devon didn’t soften it. He never did. “They breached Franks’ burner,” he said in her ear, voice stripped of excess. “They sent him a photo. You. At the facility. Time-stamped.”
Anya didn’t break stride. She ghosted through a narrow industrial corridor two blocks from the Gdańsk node, boots whisper-silent over concrete, and the Baltic wind slicing cold through the open loading bays—alert, invisible, unstoppable.
This time she responded. “Source?”
“Unknown relay chain. Professional. They wanted him to know they were watching.”
Of course they did.
“Anything else?” she asked.
A pause. Then: “Text. ‘She doesn’t trust you. She shouldn’t.’”
Her jaw tightened once, and her eyes narrowed.
That was all?
It was predictable. They had always underestimated what she did under pressure.
“Did he respond?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
Devon hesitated. “You’re not…surprised?”
Anya adjusted her grip on the rifle slung beneath her coat. “I’ve been under observation since I was seventeen. If they wanted to scare me, they should have tried harder.”
She ended the transmission before Devon could layer sympathy into it. Sympathy was noise, and Anya didn’t do unnecessary noise.
The alley led to a quiet secondary dock access road, cluttered with towering crates and rusting shipping containers at the corners. If the courier Justin’s team was shadowing stayed on pattern, he’d pass through this alleyway.
Anya scaled the steel fire escape of the adjacent warehouse, boots striking once—too loud—then melting into silence. On the roof, she dropped prone, rifle braced against the ledge, scope knifing through the shadows below, every sense tuned to threat.
The wind was manageable.
Her breath was steady.
Distance: 143 meters.
She didn’t think about the message again. She thought about angles.
The courier emerged below, clutching a small bag, neutral coat cinched tight. Head down, he moved with a predator’s caution—purposeful, almost too deliberate, every step a calculated risk.
She tracked him as he paused near a container marked with a shipping code that didn’t match the rest of the yard. The kind of discrepancy that only someone trained to look for anomalies would notice.
He tapped twice on the metal door and waited.
A seam yawned open behind him—not the container, but the asphalt itself splitting. A hidden service hatch, so well-disguised she’d missed it on satellite—true professional infrastructure, dangerous in its invisibility.
Her pulse ticked once at the infrastructure.
The courier slipped through, and the hatch sealed.
Anya keyed her comm. “He’s underground. Southwest quadrant.”
Justin’s voice came through instantly. “Copy. We’re repositioning.”
There was no strain in his tone. No irritation that she had moved independently. Just adjustment.
Good.
She shifted her scope, widening the view.
Movement flickered at the dock’s far end. Two men flowed from a sedan—too clean, too assured, as if the grime of the docks might stain them. Their posture was wrong: not dockworkers, but apex predators in borrowed skins.
“Additional assets,” she murmured. “North entrance.”
Ice responded. “Eyes on. Holding.”
The sedan doors closed with a hush. The men didn’t rush or fidget. They moved with the chill confidence of professionals who expected to be seen—and dared you to try them anyway.
Anya’s skin cooled.
This wasn’t courier logistics. This was counter-surveillance.
“They’re checking for a tail,” she said.
Justin replied, “Then we let them find one.”
A beat before Ice’s voice layered in. “I can give them sloppy.”
Anya adjusted slightly, watching one of the men glance upward—not at her, but near enough to matter.
“Careful,” she said. “They’re not looking for amateurs. They’re looking for confirmation.”
Silence.
Then Justin: “Understood.”
One of the men peeled off toward the fire escape she’d used.
Anya’s breathing didn’t change.
Distance: Eighty-two meters. Wind negligible.
If he climbed, she would have to decide quickly whether to drop him or let him approach and compromise position.
Her finger rested along the trigger guard.
Justin slipped into the alley with a casual stride, collar turned up. He ignored the sedan and the fire escape, appearing more like a man who’s lost interest in the delivery than someone on a mission.
The hostile approaching Justin slowed and adjusted. He wasn’t sure anymore.
Good.
Justin’s voice came low over the comm. “You’re being baited.”
She didn’t look down. “I know.”
“They want you to take the shot.”
“Yes.”
A faint edge entered his tone. “Don’t.”
The man reached the base of the fire escape, paused, and looked up.
Anya didn’t move.
Seconds stretched.
Then his phone vibrated. He checked it and turned slightly away. Hesitation.
Justin stepped into his peripheral, brushing past him deliberately as if annoyed by proximity.
The man’s focus shifted.
Anya exhaled slowly.
He abandoned the staircase and moved back toward the sedan.
Threat de-escalated. For now.
“You’re welcome,” Justin murmured.
She allowed herself the smallest breath through her nose. “You were in my line.”
“I knew where you were aiming.”
Irritating heat flickered in her chest. He’d been accurate. For a fraction of a second, her focus shifted—not to the targets, not to the angles, but to the space he had stepped into without hesitation.
Not to block her. To stand where she would need him to be.
Her gaze dropped briefly to the point where he’d crossed her line of fire—then lifted back to his face. “You’re assuming a lot,” she said.
Justin’s mouth curved, barely enough to count as a smile. “I usually do when it matters.”
The moment stretched—thin, sharp, and far more dangerous than the gunfire that followed.
The hatch beneath the asphalt reopened. Three figures emerged. Not the courier. These men were armed and moving fast.
“They’re coming,” Anya snapped.
Justin’s voice hardened. “Charlie Team, collapse.”
Gunfire erupted—no suppressors now, just thunder and chaos tearing the docks apart. Screams and ricochets filled the air, the world exploding into violence at the pull of a trigger.
Panicked civilians scattered from the far end of the dock.
One of the armed men fired wildly toward a fleeing couple.
Anya’s world funneled into the crosshairs—breath, distance, trigger. The rest of the city vanished, leaving only threat and answer, violence and precision.
Distance: One hundred nine meters.
She didn’t think. She fired.
Her shot punched through his shoulder, spinning him away from the civilians—a decision measured in milliseconds, a life saved by muscle memory and intent.
Justin and Charlie Team were already engaging the other two. Their formation was tight, and they fired in controlled bursts.
One hostile dropped. The second dove toward the open hatch.
Justin lunged but he was too far away.
The man disappeared below. The hatch slammed shut. Silence rushed back in, jagged and incomplete.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Anya scanned once more before slinging the rifle and descending the fire escape.
Justin met her at street level, breath even, eyes scanning her face for damage before returning to the field.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded once.
Behind them, Charlie Team secured the wounded hostile she had shot.
He was bleeding heavily but alive.
Good. Interrogation was better than a body.
Anya’s gaze shifted toward the sealed hatch. “They’re not just protecting logistics. They’re protecting relocation.”
Justin followed her line of sight. “He’s moving.”
“Yes.” She met his eyes. “And we forced his hand.”
A faint crease appeared between his brows. “At the cost of visibility.”
She didn’t argue. Because he was right.
A body on a dock drew attention. Attention drew scrutiny. Scrutiny drew timelines.
Devon’s voice cut in. “Polish authorities are en route. You have four minutes before containment shifts.”
Justin exhaled slowly. “Then we make those minutes count.”
He turned to Charlie Team. “Grab the wounded. Leave nothing clean.”
Anya watched him move without panic, without impulse. Only purpose.
He filled space without consuming it.
Her comm vibrated once more.
A new message. Encrypted. Not from Devon.
She opened it.
No photo this time.
Just text.
Unknown: —You protect each other well. Let’s see how long that lasts.—
A threat, but also a challenge. The kind of message that meant the game was only just beginning.
Her expression didn’t change.
She showed the screen to Justin.
He read it once, then locked eyes with her. “They’re escalating.”
“Yes.”
Sirens grew louder. Blue lights flashed at the edge of the docks.
Anya slid her phone back into her pocket. “They think pressure fractures.”
Justin’s gaze sharpened—hard as steel. “It won’t.”
It wasn’t a promise. It was a statement.
She studied him for half a beat longer than necessary. Then she nodded once. “Good.”
Because the next time Silent Night tested proximity—
She wouldn’t hesitate.
And neither would he.