Midnight.
The city's breath held again.
Aaron crouched behind a burnt-out patrol car, watching the warehouse across the street. Gray, two stories, windows blacked out. No signs. No lights.
Just the soft hum of a generator. A flicker behind the boarded-up front.
Inside: one of Bishop's old production sites. Meth, opioids, sometimes worse. But that wasn't what Aaron was after.
He was hunting a voice.
Matt's.
Reggie knelt beside him, shotgun strapped across his back, chewing a toothpick like it was a challenge.
"You sure he's in there?" Reggie muttered.
Aaron didn't answer right away. His eyes were locked on the door.
"No," he finally said. "But Bishop wants us to believe he is. That's enough."
Reggie smirked. "You always this fun on field trips?"
Aaron stood slowly, checked his pistol.
"Only when I know someone's gonna bleed."
Behind them, Reggie's boys were scattered in a half-moon formation—rusted guns, nervous hands, but eyes ready. Desperation had a smell. They wore it like cologne.
Aaron raised a hand.
Three fingers. Then two.
One.
They moved.
Quick. Brutal.
Reggie kicked in the door with a bellow and stormed inside like a riot wearing boots. Aaron followed, eyes cutting through the dark like knives.
The first room was empty. Just broken lab equipment, old tables, scorched beakers.
But the second room—
Blood.
Lots of it. Still fresh.
A message painted across the wall in long, smeared streaks.
> "YOU'RE TOO LATE."
Aaron's stomach turned cold.
He turned just as the floor gave out.
Trapdoor. Steel beneath wood. It snapped open like a jaw, and two of Reggie's men dropped with a scream into blackness.
Gunfire erupted.
A figure moved in the dark—fast, armored, firing with military precision.
Reggie dove for cover, yelling.
Aaron didn't move.
He recognized the way this trap was built. The timing. The layers.
This wasn't war.
This was choreography.
And Bishop?
Bishop had just hit his cue.