Page 142 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Always the strategist. Thank fuck someone's brain still works while mine's spinning.

That's when I hear it—scratching from inside the containers. Whimpering. Someone crying in what sounds like Russian or Ukrainian. The cargo.

My hands clench into fists. Focus on the mission, not the victims. Not yet.

The maze opens suddenly into a clear space. Perfect killing field—containers stacked three high on all sides, only one way in or out. Floodlights positioned to blind us while leaving shadows for shooters.

They've built us a coffin.

"Welcome home, little swan."

The voice echoes from speakers mounted on the containers. Smooth, cultured, with just enough accent to sound exotic instead of foreign. The voice from Mira's nightmares.

Every muscle in her body locks. I can see her pulse jumping in her throat, watch her fingers twitch toward her weapon.

"This isn't home," she says, loud enough for the speakers to pick up. "It's your graveyard."

Laughter rolls through the fog. "Such violence from my little Mira. Do you remember the pictures you drew me? Purple crayon hearts with 'Uncle Alex' written inside?"

Fuck. The psychological warfare starting already.

"I remember everything," Mira says. "Including my mother's screams."

"Your mother was weak. Your father too. They would have wasted your potential."

Container doors start opening around us. The screech of metal on metal echoes through fog as armed figures emerge. Ten, fifteen, twenty, more. Rifles raised, laser sights painting red dots on our chests.

"Weapons down," the lead guard commands. "Petrov wants his swan alive. The rest are expendable."

We're surrounded. Outgunned. Exactly where they want us.

That's when Mira starts laughing.

The sound raises every hair on my body. It's not humor—it's anticipation. It's years of planning finally paying off.

"Now," she says quietly.

The world explodes into controlled chaos.

Muzzle flashes light up the fog above us—Prague team opening fire from positions on top of the containers. Their suppressors turn gunshots into whispers, but the results scream. Bodies start dropping around the perimeter, guards spinning wildly, trying to find targets in the white nothing above.

"Contact! We're taking fire from—"

The guard's report cuts off as his head snaps back. Asher's work, even with fucked ribs.

"Move!" I grab Mira, pulling her behind a container as the remaining guards open fire. Bullets spark off metal, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.

She's already drawn her Glock, that cold efficiency taking over. "Northwest corner. Three guards using cargo containers as cover."

I peek around the edge, spot them, and return fire. My shots are shit—the adrenaline making my hands shake—but it keeps their heads down.

Christ, can't hold the gun steady. Too much energy, too much everything.

"You brought an army!" Petrov's voice cracks through the speakers, rage replacing that smooth control. "My little swan needed help?"

"I brought family," Mira shouts back, then she's moving.

I follow, trying to cover her, but she doesn't need it. Every motion is calculated, using fog and shadows like she was born to them. A guard rounds the corner and she puts two in his chest before he can raise his rifle.