The noise of the transaction floor died instantly, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on concrete.
Cyan had been right. The perimeter four, the ones standing perfectly still, moved first.
They didn't shout. They didn't hesitate. They converged on us with the cold, synchronized grace of people who had been paid a lot of money to be exactly this dangerous.
I looked at my two men. "Split," I said. It was all they needed. They vanished into the shadows of the crate stacks, drawing half the heat with them.
The first Serbian reached the walkway before I could adjust my stance. He was big, the kind of man who had spent his life believing that being the largest person in the room was the same thing as winning.
He swung a heavy, telegraphed right hook.
I didn't dodge it. I let it land against my forearm, absorbing the shock to gauge his strength. It was significant, but his balance was garbage.
