Page 129 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"North exit blocked," Xander reports. "These guys came prepared."

Think. Every exit route. Every shortcut. Every hiding spot.

"How long have you been setting this up?" I ask Gideon, my voice coming out low and dangerous.

His laugh makes my skin crawl. "Since the moment you walked back into my world."

The sound of shattering glass cuts through our tactical chatter. Three smoke grenades roll through the classroom windows simultaneously, filling the air with thick gray clouds that burn my eyes and throat.

Professional. Coordinated. They've done this before.

"Ambush protocol!" I shout into my comms, but the words disappear into the chaos of automatic weapons fire erupting from multiple positions outside the building.

Through the smoke, I catch glimpses of black tactical gear moving with military coordination. These aren't street-level traffickers or desperate criminals. They move like special forces, like us.

Mira's voice cuts through the gunfire, steady and lethal. "Six tangos, northwest corridor. Moving in coordinated formation."

"Having fun yet, golden boy?" she calls out, dropping two targets with center mass shots.

"Ask me when we're not being shot at by your fan club," I snap back, tracking movement through the haze.

My weapon finds targets through the smoke, but before I can engage properly, something slams into my shoulder. Not a bullet—a flashbang. The explosion sends me reeling backward into the hallway, ears ringing like church bells.

Get up. Find Mira. Move.

I shake off the disorientation and push toward where I last saw her, but the smoke is too thick. My tactical training screams at me to fall back, regroup, establish communication with the team. But my chest feels like it's being crushed by a hydraulic press.

She's in here somewhere. Fighting them alone.

"Contact southeast!" Cole's words break through the radio interference. "They've got the main exits covered!"

Asher's clinical assessment follows immediately. "Sniper positions on adjacent buildings. This is a coordinated extraction, not a firefight."

Extraction. They're not here to kill us.

Through the clearing smoke, I see Mira pressed against the far wall, her weapon trained on three advancing figures in tactical gear. She drops two with center mass shots, but there are more behind her. Too many.

Four, maybe five men moving in sync, overwhelming her through sheer numbers rather than skill. One has something in his hand that isn't a weapon—taser maybe, or zip-tie restraints.

She spins toward the new threat, but hands grab her arms, her legs. Professional takedown, designed for capture not elimination.

No. Not happening.

I sprint toward the melee, but something massive slams into my ribs, sending me sprawling across the floor. When I roll over, gasping for air, Gideon stands above me with a satisfied smile and a tactical baton in his hands.

"She's worth more than you know," he says conversationally, like we're discussing racing statistics instead of watching the woman I love get dragged away by armed men. "Eastern European contacts pay premium for skilled assets with her particular background."

Assets. He's talking about her like she's cargo.

The rage that floods my system is so complete, so consuming, that for a moment I can't see anything except red. I lunge for him, but he sidesteps with the same casual grace he used to demonstrate proper cornering technique.

"You son of a bitch. You sold her out."

"I sold you all out," he says, dodging my wild swing. "But she was always the primary objective. The rest of you were just... collateral benefits."

Through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of Mira being carried toward a black SUV. She's conscious, fighting the restraints, her eyes burning with fury even as they load her into the vehicle.

Still fighting. Always fighting.