Page 84 of Scarred Bratva King

We wait.

A softbeep. The floodlights flicker. Barely noticeable, but enough to tell me the system is temporarily fooled. The motion sensors along the fence? Dead for the next sixty seconds. That’s all we need.

I motion to Dmitri. “Go.”

We sprint forward, keeping low. The fence is tall—twelve feet, topped with razor wire. A problem for most. Not for us.

Dmitri goes first, moving like a ghost. He hooks a grappling line, scales it in seconds, and lands soundlessly on the other side. I follow, the wire cutting into my gloves as I climb.

The moment my boots hit the ground, I draw my knife. The first real test is ahead.

Two guards patrol the pathway leading to the back entrance. Their routes overlap every ninety seconds, a brief window where they separate. That’s our moment.

Dmitri watches the first guard approach. A big man, broad shoulders, his rifle loose in his grip. He’s bored. Complacent. A fatal mistake.

Dmitri strikes fast. One hand claps over the man’s mouth while the other buries a blade deep into his ribs. A gurgle, then nothing. Dmitri lowers him gently, his eyes already on me.

I move for the second guard. He’s barely five feet away when he turns, his cigarette glowing red in the dark. He doesn’t have time to react.

I grab him from behind, my arm locking around his throat in a perfect chokehold. He struggles, thrashing, but my grip is iron. Fifteen seconds, then he goes limp.

We drag the bodies into the shadows.

Viktor speaks in my earpiece. “South team, status?”

A soft click. “Moving in.”

The service door looms ahead. A keypad blinks red beside it. Locked.

Dmitri gestures, and I step forward, pulling a device from my belt. It’s the signal replicator, sent by Mrs. Bukowski. Lombardi’s guards use keycards with advanced tech inside. We’ve already cloned one using the replicator. One of a kind. Cost a fortune but it’s the reason why this will work.

I hope.

A quick scan, a held breath—beep—and the door unlocks.

I sigh as Dmitri slaps my shoulder. “Good work,” he hisses in my ear.

Inside, the hallway is dark, the air heavy with the scent of polished wood and gun oil. This is where the real challenge begins.

Cameras line the ceilings, sleek and hidden. They don’t move, which means they’re motion-triggered. We need to blind them.

I pull out a dart gun and fire. The projectile hits dead center on the camera’s casing, releasing an electromagnetic pulse that fries the circuit. It won’t look suspicious—just a technical malfunction. We do this for every camera we pass.

A guard rounds the corner. He doesn’t see me. I grab him, slamming him into the wall. My knife slides under his ribs, up into his heart. A clean kill.

Another guard steps out from a side room, spotting the body. He reaches for his radio. Too slow. I fire my silenced pistol. The bullet punches through his skull, and he drops.

Three more patrol the hallway ahead. I crouch in the shadows, waiting.

The first passes. I take him down with a chokehold, his body falling limp in seconds.

The second hears a noise. He turns, rifle raised. I fire twice. Chest. Head.

The third panics. He runs. I hurl my knife—it spins through the air, burying itself deep in his spine. He crashes to the floor.

I retrieve my weapon, stepping over the bodies.

Dmitri’s voice crackles in my earpiece. “Leave some for the rest of us.”

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