Previous Chapter (13) - Mikhail | First Chapter - Camila
The city was a sprawling circuit board of light laid out beneath him, a silent, glittering expanse that Garry 'Longshot' Whitcombe regarded with the detached interest of a god studying an anthill. From his perch atop the derelict water tower, huddled against the cold, rusted metal, the world was a clean, sterile thing. It was a world of vectors, wind speeds, and heat signatures.
He lay prone, his body a study in stillness, perfectly integrated with his rifle. The only part of him that truly existed was his right eye, pressed against the rubber cup of the scope. Through that lens, the Old Print Works was not a building, but a terrarium of glowing, amoebic blobs.
Good
With the assistance of the drone above that was capturing a top-down thermal image of the building, Garry was able to triangulate each target he saw through the scope.
He had the scope centered on the main studio. The heat signature that was Mikhail 'Wardog' Vostrikov was a bright, steady orange, strapped to the table. Around him, other, smaller blobs—the interrogators—moved with agitated energy. Longshot watched as a brighter, hotter signature—the one he’d identified as Frank Romano from Derringer's files—descended from the upper levels, interacted with the group.
A grim, thin smile touched Longshot's lips.
Attaboy, Mikhail, he thought, his internal voice a calm, Glaswegian murmur. You've got the boss himself comin' down to dance. Must really be doin' a number on those fucks.
He felt not a sliver of concern. He’d seen Wardog in a Chechen black site after three weeks of "enhanced interrogation." The man had emerged with more broken bones than a car crash victim and was cracking jokes about the quality of the borscht. Longshot had absolute, unshakable faith in his comrade's resilience. These factory thugs were amateurs, children playing with matches. Wardog would tire them out, and then Keystone would give the order to go back in and clean up. It was only a matter of time.
After Romano's hotter, more intense heat signature retreated back to the second-floor offices, two of the smaller blobs moved back in on Wardog's position. Longshot picked these out as the primary interrogators—the big one, Knuckles, and the wiry one, Nails. He settled in for the long haul, adjusting the focus on his scope, trying to get a clearer read on their subtle movements, looking for any change in the rhythm of the interrogation.
It was in that moment of focused stillness that a sudden, chaotic flurry of movement on the periphery of his vision caught his eye.
On the roof of the Print Works, a flock of pigeons, which had been roosting near a large ventilation unit, suddenly exploded into the night sky.
Instinct, honed over two decades of watching the world through a scope, took over.
Longshot’s muscles moved without conscious thought. He swung the heavy, ten-kilo rifle with a fluid, practiced motion, the bipod scraping softly on the rusted metal of the platform. He scanned the rooftop, his crosshairs sweeping methodically from left to right.
A startled flock of birds wasn't just a flock of birds. It was an indicator. It meant something had disturbed them. A guard on a smoke break. A patrol on the roof he’d missed. A new player on the board.
He scanned the entire roofline, his thermal scope cutting through the darkness, seeing the world in gradients of heat. The vent unit was a warm, bright orange. The gravel of the roof was a cool, mottled purple. He checked behind the large, blocky air conditioning units. Nothing. He scanned the parapets. Nothing.
Just a rat, probably. A stray cat.
He grunted in minor frustration at the false alarm. A waste of five, maybe ten, precious seconds. He swung the rifle back towards the front of the building, settling the crosshairs back on the main entrance, ready to resume his vigil.
But the scene had changed.
The moment his scope settled back on the street in front of the factory, a jolt of pure, ice-cold adrenaline shot through Longshot’s veins.
"Shite."
The word was a soft, choked hiss, breathed into the cold night air.
While his attention had been diverted by the birds, the game had changed. A group of heat signatures was already out on the street, moving fast. Not strolling. Not patrolling. Moving with the quick, purposeful stride of men on a mission.
He hadn’t seen them exit. Had it been a side door? A service exit his drone couldn't see? The ten-second distraction had created a blind spot, and something had just crawled out of it.
His hand, a blur of motion, flew to the comms button at his throat. He keyed the mic, his voice a model of forced, professional calm that betrayed none of the sudden, frantic urgency pounding in his chest.
"Keystone. We have movement," he said, his Scottish accent clipped and precise. "Multiple hostiles just exited the Print Works. East-side service door. They're moving with purpose. Southbound."
Longshot’s hand was back on the rifle. He cranked the magnification dial on the scope, the image jumping, the heat signatures growing larger, though still blurry and indistinct at this range. He tracked the group as they moved, his crosshairs settling on the figure at the point of their formation.
Even as a flickering orange blob, the leader's gait was distinctive. A little too much swagger. A smaller, leaner profile than the bruisers he was leading. It was the one who wore the cheap suit.
Longshot keyed his mic again, his voice sharp with the new intelligence.
"Update. Point man is Slick. Repeat, the group is led by Slick," he reported. "Vector is consistent. This could be bad. Report?"
A crackle of static, then Keystone's voice, hard and calm, came back in his ear. "Keep eyes on them, Longshot. Track their vector. If they're moving on our position, we need to act. Fast."
"Roger," Longshot replied, his eye never leaving the scope.
He didn't have to wait long. The group of glowing orange figures turned a corner, their path now unmistakable. It was a straight line. They weren't just running. They weren't just patrolling. They were making a beeline directly for the pawn shop. For Derringer's office.
The cold, sickening realization hit Longshot with the force of a physical blow.
It's got to be… they know. They know where we are… Wardog? No… Christ, no. The big bastard wouldn't break… would he?
The thought was a betrayal, but the evidence was right there in his scope, moving inexorably closer.
He keyed the mic again, his voice now tight with a grim certainty. "Ten-four, Keystone. Their vector is confirmed. They're making a beeline for Derringer's. Repeat, they are en route to our position."
A few tense moments of silence crackled over the comms, a void filled only by the distant hum of the city and the sound of Longshot’s own steady breathing. He tracked the seven glowing figures, a pack of wolves unknowingly walking into a trap set by a much bigger, much deadlier predator.
Finally, Keystone’s voice came back, cold, calm, and already in tactical mode.
"Copy. Backblast and I are moving into position. How many hostiles, over?"
"Count is seven," Longshot reported, his eye still glued to the scope. "Repeat, seven hostiles. Slick is point. The others are… unknown. Can't match their heat sigs to the ones I saw earlier. New hires by the look of 'em. Formation is sloppy. Bunching up. Amateurs. Over."
"Copy," Keystone's voice was a blade of ice. "The street in front of the office funnels into the external stairwell. It's a natural kill box. We'll let them enter it. When they get to the base of the stairs, you take out the leader. Slick. We will assume the shot will take him down. We come out on your report. Over."
"Copy that," Longshot responded, the grim plan settling into place. "Target is the leader, on my mark. Over and out."
Longshot took his hand off the comms. The world narrowed to the circular view of his scope. He checked the wind sock he placed earlier—minimal drift. He tracks Slick's glowing orange head as it moves down the street. The crosshairs are steady, rock-solid.
Longshot let out half a breath and held the rest in his lungs, his body becoming a rock-solid extension of the rifle. The world narrowed to the circular, glowing view of his thermal scope.
He had the wind. He had the range. He had the target.
He watched Slick's bright orange head bobbing along the street, the crosshairs of his scope painted directly on the center of its mass. The six figures following him were a disorganized, clustered mess, perfect for the chaos that was to follow.
His internal monologue was a calm, steady countdown, a ritual honed over hundreds of kills in a dozen different shitholes around the globe.
Two hundred meters… range is good… one-fifty… steady now, Garry… one hundred… fifty…
As Slick reached the bottom of the external metal stairwell that led up to Derringer's office, Longshot’s index finger, which had been resting lightly on the trigger guard, moved with imperceptible slowness onto the trigger itself. He took up the slack.
He doesn't squeeze. He breaks the trigger.
The world explodes in a single, violent instant.
Through the scope, he sees it before he hears or feels anything. One moment, Slick's thermal signature is a bright, clear head. The next, it simply vanishes, flash-vaporized into a brief, hot, pinkish mist that hangs in the air for a split second before dissipating into the cold night. The body below it stands, headless, for a full, surreal second before collapsing in a clumsy, boneless heap at the bottom of the stairs.
The recoil slams hard and solid into his shoulder, a familiar, brutal kiss.
The six remaining goons freeze, their heat signatures flaring with confusion and shock. They stare at Slick's headless body, trying to process the impossible, instantaneous violence that has just occurred.
And then the sound hits them.
Almost two seconds after Slick's head evaporated, the deafening CRACK of the supersonic rifle shot shatters the night around them. It's an ear-splitting sound that slams into the buildings around them, echoing and re-echoing through the concrete canyons of the West District.
Instinctively, all six men spin around, their backs now to Derringer's office, and look up, trying to pinpoint the source of the shot, searching the rooftops for the sniper's nest.
Longshot watches as the two heat signatures of Keystone and Backblast hurl out of the office at the same time the goons reacted to the sound.
The six thugs, their attention completely diverted by the rifle shot, are caught in a perfect kill box. From Longshot's perspective, it's a terrifyingly efficient slaughter. He watches the six thermal blobs jerk, spasm, and collapse as a hail of bullets tears through their exposed backs. It's over in less than five seconds. All hostiles down.
One man was thrown backward by the sheer kinetic force of the impacts. Another crumpled where he stood. A third tried to turn and run but only made it two steps before his legs gave out.
It was over in less than five seconds.
Where there had been a squad of seven armed men, there was now just a pile of cooling, motionless bodies at the bottom of a metal staircase.
Longshot methodically scanned the street, checking the alleyways, the doorways. Nothing. The street was clear. The threat was neutralized.
His comms crackled. "Status, Longshot?" It was Keystone, his voice calm, not even winded.
Longshot settled back into his prone position, the entire engagement having barely raised his heart rate. "All targets are down," he reported, his voice a flat, professional monotone. "Street is clear. You're good."
A few minutes of silence passed. Longshot redirected his sights to the Old Print Works. The world had gone quiet again.
His comms crackled. "Status update?" It was Keystone.
"They're moving Wardog again… back to that north-west room. The clinic."
But then, his blood ran cold.
Another heat signature was moving. A small one. From the direction of the cellblock.
"Keystone…" Longshot's voice was suddenly tight, all traces of humor gone. "They're bringing the new girl out. The one Scout brought in. They're taking her to the studio. I've got… shit… I've got two more signatures with her. Looks like… looks like cameramen moving in. It's showtime."
He zoomed in on the thermal blob that was Wardog being moved down the corridor. He was searching for the familiar, rhythmic bob of a man walking, the slight rise and fall of a human gait.
He didn't see it.
"Wait a minute…" Longshot's voice was a low, horrified whisper. "Wardog's signature… it's not bobbing. It's not a walking gait… it's moving on a single, smooth, horizontal axis…"
He knew what he was seeing. He'd seen it a dozen times on battlefields. The smooth, unnatural glide of a body being carried or dragged.
"Fuck," he breathed into the mic, a note of dawning horror in his voice. "He's not walking. They're dragging him. He's unconscious. Keystone… they're done with him."
The implication was a punch to the gut. The clock had run out. Wardog had broken, and now the real show was about to start with a new, terrified victim.
He heard Keystone curse over the comms, a harsh, violent sound. There was a pause.
"Longshot," Keystone's voice came back, no longer calm, but a blade of cold, hard fury. "Give me an updated head count on the perimeter. How many did we just take out?"
"Seven," Longshot confirmed.
"That's a third of their known manpower," Keystone stated, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "They're down a full squad. Their leadership is in disarray. This is it. This is our window."
A new plan was being forged in the fires of their failure.
"Birdie," Keystone commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You are to maintain overwatch. Cover our entry. We're going back in. Now. We get Wardog, we get the girl, we get the location of Elena, and we burn that fucking place to the ground."
Next Chapter (15) - Jessica
The city was a sprawling circuit board of light laid out beneath him, a silent, glittering expanse that Garry 'Longshot' Whitcombe regarded with the detached interest of a god studying an anthill. From his perch atop the derelict water tower, huddled against the cold, rusted metal, the world was a clean, sterile thing. It was a world of vectors, wind speeds, and heat signatures.
He lay prone, his body a study in stillness, perfectly integrated with his rifle. The only part of him that truly existed was his right eye, pressed against the rubber cup of the scope. Through that lens, the Old Print Works was not a building, but a terrarium of glowing, amoebic blobs.
Good
With the assistance of the drone above that was capturing a top-down thermal image of the building, Garry was able to triangulate each target he saw through the scope.
He had the scope centered on the main studio. The heat signature that was Mikhail 'Wardog' Vostrikov was a bright, steady orange, strapped to the table. Around him, other, smaller blobs—the interrogators—moved with agitated energy. Longshot watched as a brighter, hotter signature—the one he’d identified as Frank Romano from Derringer's files—descended from the upper levels, interacted with the group.
A grim, thin smile touched Longshot's lips.
Attaboy, Mikhail, he thought, his internal voice a calm, Glaswegian murmur. You've got the boss himself comin' down to dance. Must really be doin' a number on those fucks.
He felt not a sliver of concern. He’d seen Wardog in a Chechen black site after three weeks of "enhanced interrogation." The man had emerged with more broken bones than a car crash victim and was cracking jokes about the quality of the borscht. Longshot had absolute, unshakable faith in his comrade's resilience. These factory thugs were amateurs, children playing with matches. Wardog would tire them out, and then Keystone would give the order to go back in and clean up. It was only a matter of time.
After Romano's hotter, more intense heat signature retreated back to the second-floor offices, two of the smaller blobs moved back in on Wardog's position. Longshot picked these out as the primary interrogators—the big one, Knuckles, and the wiry one, Nails. He settled in for the long haul, adjusting the focus on his scope, trying to get a clearer read on their subtle movements, looking for any change in the rhythm of the interrogation.
It was in that moment of focused stillness that a sudden, chaotic flurry of movement on the periphery of his vision caught his eye.
On the roof of the Print Works, a flock of pigeons, which had been roosting near a large ventilation unit, suddenly exploded into the night sky.
Instinct, honed over two decades of watching the world through a scope, took over.
Longshot’s muscles moved without conscious thought. He swung the heavy, ten-kilo rifle with a fluid, practiced motion, the bipod scraping softly on the rusted metal of the platform. He scanned the rooftop, his crosshairs sweeping methodically from left to right.
A startled flock of birds wasn't just a flock of birds. It was an indicator. It meant something had disturbed them. A guard on a smoke break. A patrol on the roof he’d missed. A new player on the board.
He scanned the entire roofline, his thermal scope cutting through the darkness, seeing the world in gradients of heat. The vent unit was a warm, bright orange. The gravel of the roof was a cool, mottled purple. He checked behind the large, blocky air conditioning units. Nothing. He scanned the parapets. Nothing.
Just a rat, probably. A stray cat.
He grunted in minor frustration at the false alarm. A waste of five, maybe ten, precious seconds. He swung the rifle back towards the front of the building, settling the crosshairs back on the main entrance, ready to resume his vigil.
But the scene had changed.
The moment his scope settled back on the street in front of the factory, a jolt of pure, ice-cold adrenaline shot through Longshot’s veins.
"Shite."
The word was a soft, choked hiss, breathed into the cold night air.
While his attention had been diverted by the birds, the game had changed. A group of heat signatures was already out on the street, moving fast. Not strolling. Not patrolling. Moving with the quick, purposeful stride of men on a mission.
He hadn’t seen them exit. Had it been a side door? A service exit his drone couldn't see? The ten-second distraction had created a blind spot, and something had just crawled out of it.
His hand, a blur of motion, flew to the comms button at his throat. He keyed the mic, his voice a model of forced, professional calm that betrayed none of the sudden, frantic urgency pounding in his chest.
"Keystone. We have movement," he said, his Scottish accent clipped and precise. "Multiple hostiles just exited the Print Works. East-side service door. They're moving with purpose. Southbound."
Longshot’s hand was back on the rifle. He cranked the magnification dial on the scope, the image jumping, the heat signatures growing larger, though still blurry and indistinct at this range. He tracked the group as they moved, his crosshairs settling on the figure at the point of their formation.
Even as a flickering orange blob, the leader's gait was distinctive. A little too much swagger. A smaller, leaner profile than the bruisers he was leading. It was the one who wore the cheap suit.
Longshot keyed his mic again, his voice sharp with the new intelligence.
"Update. Point man is Slick. Repeat, the group is led by Slick," he reported. "Vector is consistent. This could be bad. Report?"
A crackle of static, then Keystone's voice, hard and calm, came back in his ear. "Keep eyes on them, Longshot. Track their vector. If they're moving on our position, we need to act. Fast."
"Roger," Longshot replied, his eye never leaving the scope.
He didn't have to wait long. The group of glowing orange figures turned a corner, their path now unmistakable. It was a straight line. They weren't just running. They weren't just patrolling. They were making a beeline directly for the pawn shop. For Derringer's office.
The cold, sickening realization hit Longshot with the force of a physical blow.
It's got to be… they know. They know where we are… Wardog? No… Christ, no. The big bastard wouldn't break… would he?
The thought was a betrayal, but the evidence was right there in his scope, moving inexorably closer.
He keyed the mic again, his voice now tight with a grim certainty. "Ten-four, Keystone. Their vector is confirmed. They're making a beeline for Derringer's. Repeat, they are en route to our position."
A few tense moments of silence crackled over the comms, a void filled only by the distant hum of the city and the sound of Longshot’s own steady breathing. He tracked the seven glowing figures, a pack of wolves unknowingly walking into a trap set by a much bigger, much deadlier predator.
Finally, Keystone’s voice came back, cold, calm, and already in tactical mode.
"Copy. Backblast and I are moving into position. How many hostiles, over?"
"Count is seven," Longshot reported, his eye still glued to the scope. "Repeat, seven hostiles. Slick is point. The others are… unknown. Can't match their heat sigs to the ones I saw earlier. New hires by the look of 'em. Formation is sloppy. Bunching up. Amateurs. Over."
"Copy," Keystone's voice was a blade of ice. "The street in front of the office funnels into the external stairwell. It's a natural kill box. We'll let them enter it. When they get to the base of the stairs, you take out the leader. Slick. We will assume the shot will take him down. We come out on your report. Over."
"Copy that," Longshot responded, the grim plan settling into place. "Target is the leader, on my mark. Over and out."
Longshot took his hand off the comms. The world narrowed to the circular view of his scope. He checked the wind sock he placed earlier—minimal drift. He tracks Slick's glowing orange head as it moves down the street. The crosshairs are steady, rock-solid.
Longshot let out half a breath and held the rest in his lungs, his body becoming a rock-solid extension of the rifle. The world narrowed to the circular, glowing view of his thermal scope.
He had the wind. He had the range. He had the target.
He watched Slick's bright orange head bobbing along the street, the crosshairs of his scope painted directly on the center of its mass. The six figures following him were a disorganized, clustered mess, perfect for the chaos that was to follow.
His internal monologue was a calm, steady countdown, a ritual honed over hundreds of kills in a dozen different shitholes around the globe.
Two hundred meters… range is good… one-fifty… steady now, Garry… one hundred… fifty…
As Slick reached the bottom of the external metal stairwell that led up to Derringer's office, Longshot’s index finger, which had been resting lightly on the trigger guard, moved with imperceptible slowness onto the trigger itself. He took up the slack.
He doesn't squeeze. He breaks the trigger.
The world explodes in a single, violent instant.
Through the scope, he sees it before he hears or feels anything. One moment, Slick's thermal signature is a bright, clear head. The next, it simply vanishes, flash-vaporized into a brief, hot, pinkish mist that hangs in the air for a split second before dissipating into the cold night. The body below it stands, headless, for a full, surreal second before collapsing in a clumsy, boneless heap at the bottom of the stairs.
The recoil slams hard and solid into his shoulder, a familiar, brutal kiss.
The six remaining goons freeze, their heat signatures flaring with confusion and shock. They stare at Slick's headless body, trying to process the impossible, instantaneous violence that has just occurred.
And then the sound hits them.
Almost two seconds after Slick's head evaporated, the deafening CRACK of the supersonic rifle shot shatters the night around them. It's an ear-splitting sound that slams into the buildings around them, echoing and re-echoing through the concrete canyons of the West District.
Instinctively, all six men spin around, their backs now to Derringer's office, and look up, trying to pinpoint the source of the shot, searching the rooftops for the sniper's nest.
Longshot watches as the two heat signatures of Keystone and Backblast hurl out of the office at the same time the goons reacted to the sound.
The six thugs, their attention completely diverted by the rifle shot, are caught in a perfect kill box. From Longshot's perspective, it's a terrifyingly efficient slaughter. He watches the six thermal blobs jerk, spasm, and collapse as a hail of bullets tears through their exposed backs. It's over in less than five seconds. All hostiles down.
One man was thrown backward by the sheer kinetic force of the impacts. Another crumpled where he stood. A third tried to turn and run but only made it two steps before his legs gave out.
It was over in less than five seconds.
Where there had been a squad of seven armed men, there was now just a pile of cooling, motionless bodies at the bottom of a metal staircase.
Longshot methodically scanned the street, checking the alleyways, the doorways. Nothing. The street was clear. The threat was neutralized.
His comms crackled. "Status, Longshot?" It was Keystone, his voice calm, not even winded.
Longshot settled back into his prone position, the entire engagement having barely raised his heart rate. "All targets are down," he reported, his voice a flat, professional monotone. "Street is clear. You're good."
A few minutes of silence passed. Longshot redirected his sights to the Old Print Works. The world had gone quiet again.
His comms crackled. "Status update?" It was Keystone.
"They're moving Wardog again… back to that north-west room. The clinic."
But then, his blood ran cold.
Another heat signature was moving. A small one. From the direction of the cellblock.
"Keystone…" Longshot's voice was suddenly tight, all traces of humor gone. "They're bringing the new girl out. The one Scout brought in. They're taking her to the studio. I've got… shit… I've got two more signatures with her. Looks like… looks like cameramen moving in. It's showtime."
He zoomed in on the thermal blob that was Wardog being moved down the corridor. He was searching for the familiar, rhythmic bob of a man walking, the slight rise and fall of a human gait.
He didn't see it.
"Wait a minute…" Longshot's voice was a low, horrified whisper. "Wardog's signature… it's not bobbing. It's not a walking gait… it's moving on a single, smooth, horizontal axis…"
He knew what he was seeing. He'd seen it a dozen times on battlefields. The smooth, unnatural glide of a body being carried or dragged.
"Fuck," he breathed into the mic, a note of dawning horror in his voice. "He's not walking. They're dragging him. He's unconscious. Keystone… they're done with him."
The implication was a punch to the gut. The clock had run out. Wardog had broken, and now the real show was about to start with a new, terrified victim.
He heard Keystone curse over the comms, a harsh, violent sound. There was a pause.
"Longshot," Keystone's voice came back, no longer calm, but a blade of cold, hard fury. "Give me an updated head count on the perimeter. How many did we just take out?"
"Seven," Longshot confirmed.
"That's a third of their known manpower," Keystone stated, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "They're down a full squad. Their leadership is in disarray. This is it. This is our window."
A new plan was being forged in the fires of their failure.
"Birdie," Keystone commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You are to maintain overwatch. Cover our entry. We're going back in. Now. We get Wardog, we get the girl, we get the location of Elena, and we burn that fucking place to the ground."
Next Chapter (15) - Jessica
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