Page 112 of Iron Roses

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Men gather in the garage bay, sidearms unholstered, clips passed hand to hand. No one raises their voice, but everything is loud.

Boots hit concrete. Engines turn over.

In the weapons room, Lorenzo shoves open a crate lid. His sleeves are rolled. The shoulder holster already strapped across his chest shifts as he bends. He pulls rifles from foam casing and lays them on the bench, one after another, like laying tools before an autopsy.

Allegra’s voice cuts from the back hall. “I want four in the van. Two out front. Anyone late stays behind.”

She’s already dressed for it—black utility jacket, sleeves pinned to the elbows, cargo pants tucked into combat boots. Her braid is tight and low. A single hairpin clenched between her teeth as she yanks it secure.

She fits her radio mic to the edge of her collar. “Check your charges. I don’t want surprises on the second floor.”

Lorenzo loads the first weapon, locks the magazine, checks the sight. Another rifle lands in his hands without asking.

A young man—barely twenty—passes Allegra the detonator satchel. She takes it without looking at him.

I open the trunk in the far corner of the room. The key turns smooth. The hinges groan once. The gear is lined exactly where I left it—two blades, one fixed, one folding. I pull the vest over my head. The Velcro locks down with a sound that cuts through everything else.

The steel underlayer sits snug against my ribs. I don’t need to check the fit. It hasn’t changed.

The knife sheath clips to my belt at the back.

I slide the pistol in place. The safety clicks off.

Lorenzo shoulders the duffel and heads toward the car. Allegra checks the time. “Three minutes,” she says.

The men pile into two cars. Two more load into the van. The convoy moves. The road cuts between trees, dirt climbing up the fenders.

The cars travel quietly, engines humming, headlights off.

I am coming Elaria.

The estate comes into view after an hour’s drive, rising up ahead, its silhouette cutting through the night.

The first car slows, signaling a stop at the edge of the estate.

The gates are ahead—massive, black iron bars, closed tight. Two men in the back of the van open their doors. They pull out tools and Allegra is already moving beside them, checking her equipment.

Lorenzo steps out of the car behind her, his eyes scanning the perimeter. He gives a quick nod.

One of the men walks toward the gate. He checks the lock mechanism first, then signals to Allegra. She looks at him, silent, and moves in tandem with him. The second man sets up a small jammer, sliding it into place against the ground. A green light flickers on the device. The cameras that once tracked us go dark.

Allegra watches the timer on the detonator, her fingers still, her eyes focused.

“Ten seconds,” she says quietly.

The men pull back, one moving to the van, the other to the side. They retreat to cover.

Allegra steps back too, watching the signal from the jammer.

A loud pop sounds as the first charge goes off, followed by a flash of light. The force of the explosion sends a shockwave through. The gates shudder and then break apart. Metal snaps and splits. The chains that held them shut fall to the ground.

We pour into the mansion and gunfire erupts from the left.

The sound of metal on stone cuts through.

"Ambush!" someone shouts.

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