The chain-link fence stood ten feet tall, topped with spirals of razor wire that caught the morning sun in jagged glints. Quinn studied it from the cover of the underbrush, his eyes tracing every possible weakness. Direct assault was suicide. Digging underneath would take too long. Then he spotted it—a mahogany tree about twenty yards to the west, its thickest branch extending over the fence line like nature's own bridge.
He turned toward Sarah and Helen's position, raising his left hand in a series of deliberate signals. Two fingers tapped his opposite wrist—prepare to cover. Sarah nodded sharply while Helen, already peering through her rifle's scope, gave a thumbs-up with her free hand.
From Helen's vantage point, the crosshairs of her scope framed the rooftop sentry perfectly. The man moved with predictable boredom—five paces left, pause to adjust his belt, five paces right. Helen's breathing slowed as she tracked him.
"Remember," Sarah whispered beside her, "body shots are for people who miss."
Helen's lips curled slightly. "I don't miss."
The sentry turned, scratching at his stubble.
Crack.
The bullet struck just above his right eyebrow. His body crumpled forward, then slid off the roof's edge. Sarah didn't flinch. "One down."
Quinn moved to the mahogany tree, its bark rough beneath his fingers as he began his ascent. The branch creaked under his weight but held firm. Below, two guards lounged near a rusted oil drum, passing a bottle between them. Their laughter carried across the compound, loud and unconcerned.
He edged forward until the razor wire stretched beneath him. The drop was about twelve feet—manageable, but not quiet. He waited until the guards' attention was fully on their bottle before letting go.
The impact sent a dull thud through the dirt. Quinn rolled behind a stack of rotting wooden pallets, freezing as one of the guards glanced up.
"Hey, you hear that?"
The other waved him off. "Probably just a damn raccoon."
Quinn exhaled slowly.
Inside the compound, the processing plant dominated the center of the yard—brick walls, barred windows, heavy steel doors. To the left, near the foundation, a rusted ventilation cover caught his eye. The bolts were corroded, the metal weakened by years of neglect.
His knife made quick work of the rust. The cover came free with a low screech, but the generator's constant rumble masked the sound.
The shaft was narrow, claustrophobic. Cobwebs clung to his face as he wriggled through, the air thick with the sour tang of machine oil and stale sweat. Then, suddenly, the space opened up, and he dropped into a dimly lit basement.
Pipes lined the ceiling, dripping condensation into shallow puddles. At the far end, a heavy door stood reinforced with iron bands. Muffled voices leaked through the cracks.
"...said he took her to the east wing..."
"...won't last the night if Richter..."
Martha.
Quinn moved silently along the wall, his boots barely disturbing the damp concrete. The padlock was solid, but the hinges were rusted. One solid kick would—
Footsteps echoed around the corner. A flashlight beam cut through the darkness.
Quinn pressed flat against the door as the guard whistled tunelessly, his steps unhurried.
Closer.
The man paused, fumbling with his radio. "Jensen, quit screwing around. Richter wants—"
Quinn moved.
His knife slid between the guard's ribs before the man could react. A wet gasp, a shudder, and then dead weight. Quinn caught the body before it hit the ground, dragging it into the shadows. The radio crackled again.
"Jensen? You there?"
Quinn pressed the transmit button, mimicking the dead man's lazy drawl. "Nothin'. Just rats."
A grunt. "Quit wasting time."
The radio fell silent.
In the east wing, the hallway reeked of bleach and something worse—sweat, fear, pain. Quinn followed the sound of ragged breathing to a half-open steel door. Inside, Richter's voice oozed false sympathy.
"Now, Martha, darlin'. You knew the rules."
Quinn peered through the gap.
Martha knelt on the concrete, her face swollen and bloody. Richter crouched in front of her, a boning knife twirling between his fingers. Two guards flanked him, smirking.
"Last chance," Richter crooned. "Where's George hiding my merchandise?"
Martha lifted her chin. "Go to hell."
Richter sighed. "Wrong answer."
The knife flashed downward—
Quinn's bullet struck Richter's shoulder before the blade could connect. The gang leader howled, staggering back as Quinn kicked the door open.
The guards fumbled for their weapons. Too slow.
Quinn's second shot punched through the first man's temple. The third shattered the other guard's kneecap, dropping him with a scream.
Richter clutched his bleeding shoulder, his face twisted in rage. "You—!"
Quinn stepped over the writhing guard, his voice low. "Payment's due."
Martha looked up, her one unswollen eye widening. "Quinn...?"
He didn't answer. His knife was already in his hand.