Chapter 4 - The Breach at DawnThe room went dead silent save for the hum of the safehouse's air filtration system.
Roman dropped the Glock onto the workbench, his hand moving with fluid, terrifying speed to the holster beneath his left armpit. He didn't ask questions; he didn't hesitate. In half a second, a suppressed pistol was materialized in his grip, the safety clicking off with a faint, metallic snick.
"Under the desk," Roman ordered, his eyes fixed on the heavy iron reinforcement of the exterior door.
"What's out there?" I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Someone bypassed the exterior perimeter sensor," Roman said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Move, Odessa. Now."
I didn't argue. I dove behind the heavy oak workbench, pulling my knees to my chest. Luna didn't hide; she stalked toward the door, her body low to the floor, a continuous, vibrating growl tearing through her throat. She looked less like a pet and more like a tactical weapon waiting for a drop order.
Thump.
A muffled sound echoed from the hallway outside. Heavy boots. Professional movement—heel-to-toe, clearing corners, maintaining spacing. Not local thugs. Contractors.
Roman moved with terrifying grace, sliding silently toward the shadow of a structural concrete pillar beside the entryway. He raised the pistol, his breathing slowing until I couldn't hear it over the sound of my own pulse.
The heavy steel door didn't get picked or blown with a charge. It groaned as a high-pressure hydraulic wedge was jammed into the frame, forcing the deadbolts out of alignment with a screech of tortured metal.
The door swung inward.
Two men stepped through the threshold in a synchronized entry, dressed in matte-black tactical gear, their faces hidden behind dark balaclavas, assault rifles held at low-ready.
They didn't even get their barrels leveled.
Luna exploded from the shadows like a black thunderbolt. She hit the lead operative dead in the chest, the sheer momentum of her seventy-pound frame driving him backward into the drywall with a sickening crunch. Her jaws locked onto the tactical padding of his forearm, a vicious twist of her neck sending his weapon clattering across the concrete floor.
At the exact same instant, Roman moved. Two muffled puffs—sound suppressed to a wet cough—echoed through the warehouse.
The second operative dropped before his finger could find the trigger, a dark blossom of red blooming across his tactical vest.
The first man was thrashing, trying to clear his sidearm while Luna shredded the reinforced nylon of his sleeve, growling with a dark, primal fury that made my blood run cold. Roman stepped forward, jammed the barrel of his pistol squarely against the man's temple, and cut off the chaos with a single word.
"Don't."
The man froze, his breathing coming in ragged, terrified gasps beneath his mask.
"Miller?" Roman asked, his voice devoid of human emotion.
The operative let out a wet, nervous laugh. "Miller says... hello."
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Roman didn't hesitate. The butt of his pistol came down in a brutal, sweeping arc across the man's temple. The operative went limp instantly, slumping sideways against the baseboard.
Silence descended on the room once more, broken only by the patter of rain against the reinforced glass overhead and the heavy, ragged breathing of the German Shepherd.
