Page 38 of Saint's Preciosa
"Remember," Ghost says quietly, his eyes meeting mine. "Primary objective is extraction. Get Luna and any other captives out safely.”
I nod, though we both know there's a secondary objective I won't compromise on—Kovalev doesn't leave this place alive. Not after touching what's mine.
We move with practiced precision. Years of operating in the shadows have made us effective, lethal. The first two guards don't even have time to raise their weapons before they drop—each receiving a silenced bullet to the head. The others react quickly, shouting alerts, but it's too late—we've breached the perimeter.
Gunfire erupts, sporadic at first, then steady as Kovalev's men organize their defense. We've planned for this. Hawk and his team lay down suppressive fire while Blade leads the flanking maneuver. I move with Ghost directly toward the central warehouse where Cipher's intelligence indicates the shipping container we’re looking for is staged.
A guard appears from behind a forklift, gun raised. I put him down with two center-mass shots before he can squeeze his trigger. Another rushes from a side door—this one I take with my combat knife, driving the blade up under his sternum and giving it a vicious twist. His eyes widen in shock as I lower him to the ground, already focusing on the next target.
"Saint, on your three!" Blade shouts.
I pivot, dropping to one knee as bullets ping off the container behind me. The shooter is positioned on a catwalk above, raining fire down on our position. I line up my shot and take it—clean, efficient. He tumbles over the railing, body hitting the concrete with a sickening thud.
We push forward, clearing rooms, eliminating resistance. My vision narrows to target acquisition, threat assessment, neutralization. The part of me that registers emotion is locked away. Right now, I'm a lethal weapon with one purpose.
"Command center ahead," Cipher reports through the comms. "Thermal shows six bodies inside."
"Breach in three," Ghost orders, positioning himself on one side of the door while I take the other.
The flashbang disorients Kovalev's men just long enough. We enter in a choreographed assault that leaves no chance for recovery. I take down two before they can clear their vision, Ghost and Blade handle the rest. Only one is left alive—a tech operator cowering under a desk.
Cipher immediately takes his place at the computer station, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Container manifest, security protocols, shipping schedules—it's all here," he says, downloading data to his secure drive. "Container 237—that's our target. Northeastern quadrant, ready for loading. Scheduled for departure in..." he checks the screen, "forty-three minutes."
My blood runs cold. Forty-three minutes and Luna would have been gone—loaded onto a ship bound for who knows where, disappeared forever.
"Kovalev?" I demand, grabbing the surviving tech by his collar and lifting him to eye level. "Where is he?"
"Checking...checking the merchandise," the man stammers, eyes wide with terror. "Container area. Please—I just work the computers. I don't touch the girls."
I release him with a shove. "If you're lying, I'll come back for you."
Ghost nods to Diesel. "Watch him."
We move quickly through the facility, encountering scattered resistance. Most of Kovalev's men are falling back, regrouping around what must be their most valuable asset—the human cargo they're preparing to ship.
"Ahead," Cipher directs through our earpieces. "Storage area C. Container 237 is the third from the left."
As we approach, I see him—Ivan Kovalev, surrounded by four heavily armed guards, standing near a row of shipping containers. He's barking orders, clearly agitated by the attack.
"I want that shipment moved now!" he shouts at a subordinate. "The buyers have already paid. If we lose this product?—"
He doesn't finish the sentence because he spots us. For a moment, our eyes lock across the warehouse floor. His widening with recognition, mine narrowing with deadly intent.
"Kill them!" Kovalev orders, ducking behind his men as they open fire.
We take cover behind stacked crates, returning fire methodically. One guard drops, then another. The remaining two are better trained, their movements suggesting military or specialized police background. They advance tactically, covering each other, making it difficult to get clean shots.
"I need to get to that container," I tell Ghost, ejecting an empty magazine and slamming in a fresh one.
He nods once. "Cover fire in three."
The coordinated barrage gives me the opening I need. I sprint toward the containers, rolling behind a forklift as bullets trace my path. Twenty more yards.
One of Kovalev's men steps into view, aiming not at me but at the lock on container 237. He's going to execute the captives—eliminate the evidence. I don't hesitate. My bullet takes him in the throat before his finger can squeeze the trigger.
I'm almost at the container when Kovalev himself steps into my path, a pistol in one hand and a remote detonator in the other.
"Stop!" he shouts, backing toward the container. "I have explosives placed throughout this facility. One press and we all go up."
