"With pleasure," she hissed, knives whining with fresh hunger as she vaulted a column—boots scraping stone, leaping alcove-to-alcove like a shadowed predator closing in on wounded prey.

I charged the wall—fingers digging into marble handholds, crumbling chunks raining dust as I scaled fifty feet in heartbeats.

Bullets chased me in drumfire on my back: thuds blooming welts, one cracking my helmet visor into a spiderweb, vision tinting red haze.

"Keep shooting, boys—I'm collecting bruises for my scrapbook!"

Top alcove—first sniper prone, scope glinting, bolt racking slow as he tried to track my impossible speed. I blurred in before he could squeeze. Boot stomped his rifle, barrel bending into a U-shape with a metallic scrape. The backfire bloomed orange, flash-melting his face into charred meat.

"Peekaboo!" I grabbed his ankle and hurled him over the edge—body pinwheeling, screams dopplering down before the bone-shatter thud echoed up. Limbs splayed in wrong origami angles. "Splat goes the weasel!"

Second sniper—balcony opposite, crack-crack bursts trying to pin Ava down below. Rounds stitched air around me, one punching gut—suit absorbing the sledgehammer blow, internals jolting with queasy heat, bile rising copper-flavored in my throat.

"Gut shot? Bold! My turn." I leapt the chasm—air whooshing past, landing on his rail with a crash that bent metal screaming. He scrambled back, firing wild—bullets whiffing past my ears in hot kisses.

I snatched the scope, yanking the rifle free from his grip. "Borrowed!" Swung it like a club—stock cratering his helmet, skull imploding with a mush crunch, brain extruding through the cracks in thick paste, eyeballs bulging then bursting in juicy pops.

"Eye see you!"

Ava's voice echoed from below, breathless and excited. "Eros! Rat's tunneling deeper—smells like piss and panic!"

Dmitri's shout echoed distant from the vault corridor: "You'll die screaming, freak! My empire will—"

"Empire of cowards!" I bellowed back, vaulting down in a crater-landing that sent shockwaves toppling two mercs Ava had been herding—knees reverse-snapping with wet cracks. She carved one mid-fall: knife through eye socket with a squelch, twisting to scramble the gray matter.

"Nice stir-fry!" I called.

"Thanks! Now get the rat before he finds a hole!"

We flanked the vault entrance together—heavy reinforced door, half-open, Dmitri's labored breathing audible from inside. Furniture scraped frantic, his sobs wheezing, trying to barricade himself.

I booted the door—it exploded inward in a hail of splinters and bent metal. Dmitri bolted deeper into the vault maze, limping badly, blood trailing from his wounded leg, torn suit showing an ass-cheek flap flopping.

"Run, rat, run!" I called after him. "Tag—you're it!"

But I wasn't chasing yet. I reached to my belt, fingers finding the nano-cable spool—metallic rope, thin as wire but strong as steel cable, fifty meters coiled tight. Activated with a thumb-press, the smart-rope came alive, magnetic head seeking, propulsion jets hissing.

I hurled it forward like a spear. The rope uncoiled mid-flight, serpent-fast, following Dmitri's heat signature through the vault corridor. He heard the hiss, turned to look—

The cable wrapped his ankle in three quick loops, magnetically locking to itself, contracting tight enough to cut circulation but not sever. Auto-tension engaged, and suddenly Dmitri was yanked off his feet with a yelp.

"What—no! NO!"

I gripped the other end of the rope, planted my boots, and pulled.

Dmitri came sliding back down the corridor, screaming, hands scrabbling for purchase on smooth vault floor. His nose hit marble first with a pulping mush explosion, teeth scattering like ivory hail, blood spraying in a fan.

The rope dragged him relentless, skin abrading into raw strips where exposed flesh met stone, screams going raw-throated.

"Leash for the rat!" I called cheerfully, reeling him in hand-over-hand.

Ava vaulted over supply crates to cut off any side exits, knives ready, but there was nowhere for Dmitri to go. The nano-cable had him pinned, and I was the anchor he couldn't escape.

I dragged him all the way back to the atrium entrance, his struggles weakening, his face a mask of blood and snot and tears.

"There we go," I said, standing over him as he lay gasping. "Much better. Now you're not going anywhere."

Crack!

The sniper round slammed into my neck from an impossible angle—a shot from deep in the vault maze, from a position we hadn't cleared. Suit absorbed the sledgehammer impact, but the force snapped my head sideways, bruise fire exploding through my shoulder, blood trickling hot down my collar.

"VOLKOV!" I roared toward the darkness. "That you, you rooftop cocksucker? Keep 'em coming—I'm collecting souvenirs!"

Ava hissed, dodging as another round screamed past—this one grazing her arm, parting suit fabric in a shallow furrow, blood sheeting down her elbow slick. "Volkov's got a hard-on for us! Pin that bastard!"

Dmitri tried to seize the distraction—knee jerking toward my groin in a desperate miss, trying to scramble away even with the cable locked around his ankle. I yanked the rope hard, slamming him flat on his back, air whooshing from his lungs.

"Stay!" I commanded, like he was a disobedient dog.

Ava was already moving, reading my intent. She vaulted more crates in a shower of splinters, knives out, hunting for the sniper's position. "Flank the sky-rat! I'll flush him toward you!"

The vault labyrinth opened before us—shelves crashing in an avalanche of stored weapons and supplies as Volkov repositioned, his shots echoing from multiple angles, using the acoustics to mask his location.

Automated turrets whirred to life with a klaxon wail—Dmitri must have had a dead-man switch, final defense activating. Miniguns spun up with that distinctive growl.

"Toys again?" Ava rolled into a dodge—bullets shredding crates into wood hail that embedded in her thighs with stinging pulls, drawing blood pinpricks. She hurled knives in return—blades embedding in turret lenses with crunching sparks, blinding them into erratic sprays.

I blurred into the turret storm, bullets hammering my front in drumfire, welts blooming across my chest in concussive fire.

One cracked my visor further, spiderwebbing my vision into a red haze. I clamped my hand onto a spinning barrel—metal crumpling with a screech, heat scorching my palm—and yanked it free from its mount with a metallic rip.

"Batter up!" I swung in wide arcs—the turret housing imploding under the impacts, orange blooms of electrical fire, ammunition belts whipping loose to lash open faces in bloody cuts.

Another crack from Volkov—I traced the trajectory, followed the sound dampening. High beam perch, nestled in the vault's upper scaffolding, hidden behind supply pallets.

I leapt, scaling vertical—fingers splintering steel support beams in showers of sparks, bullets chasing me with thuds that jolted my spine. "Coming for you, Volkov! Aimed at my family? Your mistake!"

Below, Ava herded Dmitri into a corner near a control console, the rat slapping panic buttons futile as doors locked with echoing clangs. She knife-pinned his thigh with a shallow stab—just a tendon nick, not a full sever—and his leg buckled, blood geysering but controlled.

"Stay, International Criminal puppy!" she commanded.

I reached the top beam—and there he was. Volkov, the Siberian Ghost himself. Prone position, scope steady, ex-Spetsnaz with a face of scar tissue that glinted with cold sweat. The man who never missed.

Until tonight.

I blurred in faster than his reflexes could track. "Boo!"

My boot pinned his rifle—barrel bending into a U-shape with a scraping screech. The backfire scorched his face orange but didn't melt it—I needed him conscious. He knife-drew in a slash that would've opened a normal man's throat.

I weaved, caught his wrist in a hyper-extend that popped the joint but didn't fully tear ligaments. The knife clattered away.

"Alive, asshole—!" I drove a fist into his gut—not to rupture organs, just to knock the air out with a whooshing expulsion. His ribs creaked in protest, bruising deep. I yanked him close by his collar. "You aimed at my bloodline. My family. My women. Now? You're the message."

Nano-cuffs snapped around his wrists with a clicking lock, binding tight enough to cut circulation and numb his hands. I hoisted him in a shoulder-carry—his body dangling limp—and threw him over the edge in a controlled drop.

He crashed into a pile of cushioning crates below with a thud that bruised but didn't break, limbs intact, groans wheezing from his chest.

I dropped in a crater-landing beside Ava, shockwave toppling nearby shelves in a dust-choke cloud.

Dmitri lay pinned by the nano-cable, face a mess of snot, blood, and tears. "No—just kill me! Please!"

"Kill?" I hoisted him up in a fireman's carry, his shoulder bones grinding against mine in agony spikes. Ava mirrored me with Volkov, knife held to his throat as a guide. "Nah. You're going back alive. For the family. For Charlotte. For confessions. For screams. Hell's slow-cook is waiting, but first—you're gonna tell us everything."

Or at least, he'll live just for the Breaking News! Not for so long after that though.

Distant comm-crackled with panicked voices—reinforcements realizing their bosses were captured, wondering if they should flee or fight.

"Extraction time," Ava grinned feral, licking one of her blades clean of blood. "Tie 'em tight—ride's gonna be bumpy."

The rat had run out of holes to hide in.

And Volkov? The sniper who never missed?

He'd missed the only shot that mattered: the one that would've saved his life.

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