Peter

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“Now,” I bark into the headset, and Yan fires the RPG as Arslan’s bodyguards herd their boss into his car.

Boom!

For a moment, there’s nothing but the blinding flash of the missile exploding and the ringing in my ears, but then I see it.

The surviving bodyguards scattering like roaches, with more running out of the guardhouse to confront the threat.

“Do it,” I tell Anton, and he starts picking them off one by one, his semi-automatic sniper’s rifle firing with deadly efficiency. I join him, and before long, a dozen bodies litter the ground, their heads blown open by our bullets.

“Two o’clock,” Yan shouts in the headset, and I spot movement on the ground. A guard is crouched low, using the burning car as a cover. His arm is around a man’s back, protecting him.

Fury spikes through me as I recognize the man.

Deniz Arslan.

Our target is still alive.

He’s bloodied and covered with dirt, but he’s walking—which means his bodyguards are even better than we thought.

“It’s Arslan,” I snarl into the headset, shifting my position to angle my scope around the obstruction of the burning car.

I have to get this fucker.

He has to die today.

In the distance, sirens wail, and more bodyguards rush into Arslan’s yard. We have minutes, if not seconds, to complete our task.

Shutting out the noise and the pounding of my heartbeat in my temples, I concentrate and squeeze the trigger.

Arslan’s protector falls, his brains exploding all over the politician as I fire off a second shot.

“Fuck!”

Through training or dumb luck, my target falls and rolls—at the exact right time.

Swearing under my breath, I shoot again, and I hear the staccato roar of Anton’s weapon next to mine.

With grim satisfaction, I watch as two of our bullets rip through Arslan’s skull, exploding his brain on the way.

It’s done.

The corrupt politician is dead.

“Incoming,” Yan yells, and I jump to my feet, hearing a helicopter in the distance.

As expected, we’re going to have pursuit.

It takes mere seconds for Anton and myself to shimmy down from the neighbor’s roof and join Yan below on the street. It’s only a few blocks to the community fence from here, and we run as fast as we can as the sirens’ wail grows louder. The helicopter is approaching quickly, too.

“Ilya? Tell me you’re there,” I order, out of breath as I sprint down the street.

“Ready and waiting,” he reports. “You guys better hurry. It’s about to be a madhouse over here.”

Clenching my teeth, I pick up speed, and Yan and Anton do the same as a vehicle squeals out onto the street a block behind us.

Arslan’s remaining bodyguards are catching up.

The ten-foot fence looms ahead, with community guards pouring onto the road, armed to the teeth.

“Now,” I shout at Yan, and he pulls out a grenade, ripping the pin off with his teeth without slowing down.

The guards scatter as Yan throws the grenade, and Anton and I pull out our guns, firing indiscriminately.

We don’t need to kill them all, just get them out of our way.

We’re now at the fence, so I jump up, grabbing onto a tree branch to lever myself up. This, here, is why we train so hard, why we have to be stronger than most athletes. My muscles scream as I dangle by one hand, lowering the other arm to pull up Anton, and when Anton scales the top of the fence, he pulls me up before reaching down for Yan as I provide the cover fire.

Another grenade from Yan explodes in a deafening flash, chasing away the guards as we jump down from the fence, and then we’re off again, running at top speed.

We need to get to our rendezvous point.

That’s the only way we’ll make it out.

The helicopter roar intensifies above us, the police sirens screaming ever louder.

“Now, Ilya,” I shout into the headset, and his car screeches around the bend, slowing down just enough for us to jump in.

We peel away from Arslan’s community, taking the back roads toward a tunnel, and when the sounds of pursuit fade, we switch vehicles and drive directly to our plane.

We made it.

Our target’s dead, and no one got hurt.

Elated, I call Lucas as soon as our plane lifts off the ground.

“It’s over,” I say when he picks up the phone. “We’re on our way back, so you can tell Sara to get ready. We’re going to pick her up before we make a little detour to New Zealand.”

For a moment, all there is silence. Then Lucas speaks.

“Peter…” His tone is grave. “About Sara… I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”