Thursday, 9:05 PM
They stood across the street from The Stack, staring up at the towering building. The lower floors pulsed with music and light—clubs in full swing now, crowds pouring in and out. But the top floor was different. Fewer lights. Fewer windows lit. More security.
Monti pulled out his phone, checking the camera feeds. The top floor hallway showed the same scene—Salmo standing motionless outside the door. A few other guards patrolled the lower floors, but nothing unusual.
"Six floors up," Monti said, pocketing the phone.
"Service entrance won't get us that high without passing through occupied floors." Monti continued
"Fire escape on the east side," Kínitos said, pointing. "Looks like it goes all the way to the top."
"Also looks like it's visible from half the street."said Monti
"So we go after midnight. When the clubs are packed and no one's looking up." Replied Kínitos
Monti checked his watch. "That gives us three hours."
"We'll need them." Kínitos pulled out his phone, taking more photos of the fire escape, the top floor windows, the security camera positions. "We go in fast, grab her, and get out before anyone realizes we were there."
"And Salmo?" Questioned Monti
Kínitos's expression hardened. "If he gets in our way, we go through him." Monty checked the camera feeds one more time. Salmo hadn't moved. Still standing guard. Still waiting.
"He's not going anywhere," Monty said quietly.
"Which means we'll know exactly where he is when we go in."
They stood there for another moment, studying the building, committing every detail to memory. Tomorrow they'd be back here for the mission. For Marco Delgado, for the weapons deal, for whatever intel Jade needed. But tonight?
Tonight they were saving someone who'd helped them. Even if it meant walking into the Saint Patro's stronghold. Even if it meant facing a man in military-grade armor. Even if it meant risking everything.
"Let's find somewhere to wait," Monti said.
"And gear up." Said Kínitos
"The radius of a circle," Kínitos thought to himself
They turned away from The Stack, disappearing into the crowded streets of District 18. Three hours until midnight. Three hours until they went in.
Friday, 12:29 AM
Monti shoved through the panicked crowd, bodies slamming into him from all sides. People screamed, running for the exits. Smoke poured down the stairwells—thick, black, choking.
The explosion had torn through the top floor less than a minute ago. He pushed harder, fighting against the tide of people fleeing the building. His suit was already activated—red light pulsing along the seams, giving him the strength to force his way through.
"Move! MOVE!"
He reached the back stairwell—the service entrance they'd planned to use. It was clearer here, fewer people, but the smoke was worse. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and started climbing. His phone was already on his ear.
"Kínitos! Kínitos, answer me!"
Nothing. Just ringing.
"Fuck!" Monti took the stairs three at a time, purple smoke beginning to seep from his skin. He inhaled it, feeling his muscles surge with power. "Where are you? Where the fuck are you?"
The call went to voicemail.
Monty's chest tightened—not from the smoke, but from the ice-cold realization settling in his gut. Kínitos was up there. On the top floor. When it exploded.
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." He kept climbing, kept calling. "Jade is gonna be so fucking mad. Jade is gonna kill me."
Third floor. Fourth floor. The smoke was getting thicker. Above him, he could hear metal groaning, structural damage spreading.
He had to find him.
He had to—
Thursday, 11:45 PM — 44 Minutes Earlier
Monty sat on the fire escape landing two buildings over from The Stack, phone in hand, watching the camera feeds. Kínitos was beside him, checking his watch, running through the plan one more time.
"We go in at midnight," Kínitos said.
"Fire escape to the sixth floor. Window entry. Grab the woman. Out the same way before anyone knows we're there." Kínitos continued
"Simple." Monty didn't look up from his phone.
"Assuming nothing goes wrong." Monty says looking up from his phone.
"When does it ever?" Said Kínitos jokingly
Monty almost smiled. Then his screen changed.
One of the camera feeds—the top floor hallway—showed movement.
Salmo was walking away from the door. His heavy armored steps moved down the hallway, turning a corner, disappearing from view.
"He's moving," Monty said, sitting up straighter.
Kínitos leaned over. "Where's he going?"
"Don't know. But he's off the door."
Monty swiped to another feed—the stairwell. Salmo appeared there, descending. "He's leaving the top floor."
"That's our window." Said Kínitos
"Hold on." Monty swiped to the exterior cameras. "We've got a problem."
Several vans were pulling up outside the Marlow Street house—the safe house they'd infiltrated earlier. Four of them, unmarked, windows tinted black. They stopped in formation, blocking the street.
The doors opened. Men poured out. At least twenty of them. Armed. Tactical gear. Moving with military precision.
And at the center of the group, stepping out of the lead van, was a man dressed entirely in white. White suit. White tie. White gloves. White mask covering his entire face—smooth, featureless except for two eye holes.
He moved like death itself.
"Who the hell is that?" Kínitos muttered.
Monty zoomed in as much as the camera would allow. The man in white raised one gloved hand, gesturing toward the house. His team moved in, weapons raised.
Then the shooting started.
Muzzle flashes lit up the night. Windows shattered. The front door of the Marlow Street house exploded inward as the tactical team breached.
"They're raiding the safe house," Monty said, disbelief in his voice. "Someone's hitting the Saint Patro."
Kínitos watched the feed, jaw tight. "This is happening now? Right before our mission?"
"Looks like it." Said Monti
The man in white walked calmly through the front door, stepping over debris like he was entering a cathedral. His team spread out inside, clearing rooms with brutal efficiency.
Monty swiped to an interior camera—the office where they'd been earlier.
Bodies hit the floor. Saint Patro members firing back, scrambling for cover. The tactical team moved like professionals—precise, lethal, overwhelming.
The bald man from earlier—the one who'd been smoking outside the apartment building—took three rounds to the chest. He collapsed against the wall, blood spreading across his shirt.
Dead.
The man in white stepped into the office, surveying the carnage with an almost casual air. He walked past his tactical team, past the overturned desk, directly to the bald man's corpse.
He knelt down beside it. Placed one white-gloved hand on the dead man's forehead. Monty leaned closer to his phone screen, squinting.
"What's he doing?"
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the bald man's eyes snapped open.