Chapter 4 - Descent in White
The explosion of safety glass rained over Julian and Miller like hail. A heavy sniper round dug into the quartz countertop, gouging a fist-sized crater and sending stone dust choking into the cold air. Miller reacted instantly, diving behind the thick partition of the pantry wall and drawing a suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster. His subordinate wasn't as fast; a second round punched clean through the man’s tactical vest, dropping him instantly to the floor in a spray of dark crimson against the pale wood.
""Sniper on the ridge!"" Miller barked, dragging Julian by the collar of his navy henley into the cover of the hallway. ""Down! Stay low! That’s not our team. Elena didn't just break protocol—she sold our extraction route to the Russian front!""
Julian lay flat against the hall runner, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The quiet, solitary life he had clung to for three years had dissolved in less than ten minutes into an active warzone. ""The duffel bag she carried,"" Julian whispered, adrenaline clearing the lingering fog of the acoustic disruption from his brain. ""She had my passport in it. She took my old credentials from the Ministry of Defence.""
""Because you're the only one who can bypass the biometric locks at the Reykjavik terminal,"" Miller hissed, ejecting his magazine to check the spring before slamming it back home with the heel of his hand. ""She left you the twenty grand as an insult. She knew you’d hesitate, look at the money, and wonder what you did wrong while her clean-up crew eliminated the penthouse.""
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Another barrage of rounds shredded the upper kitchen cabinets, sending porcelain and glass crashing down in deafening waves. Julian looked toward the back of the hallway. There was no rear fire escape on the top floor, only the maintenance chute leading to the subterranean heating boilers four stories below. He had mapped every inch of this building when he bought it, obsessing over security protocols he thought he would never have to use.
""The utility chute,"" Julian said, grabbing Miller's tactical vest to pull him toward the service closet. ""It drops to the maintenance basement. If we go out the front door, their spotter will bracket us in the courtyard."" Miller nodded once, kicking open the service closet door to reveal the metal hatch. Julian reached for the handle, but stopped dead. Painted in wet, bright red lipstick on the metal surface was a single, freshly scribbled digit: 4721—the security code to his childhood home. Before he could turn to speak, the floor beneath the closet gave way with a sickening metallic groan, dumping them both into the pitch-black void.
