POV: Vasquez
The silence in the garage was not empty. It was heavy, pressurized by the weight of three men who had spent their entire lives preparing for a phone call they prayed would never come. It was the kind of silence that precedes a landslide still, deceptive, and pregnant with the potential for absolute devastation.
The air smelled of high-octane fuel, gun oil, and the cold, metallic scent of a brewing storm. We were deep in the guts of an industrial warehouse on the edge of the city, a place that didn't exist on any city map. To the world, we were ghosts. To Leo Moretti, we were the fail-safe.
When the burner phone on the workbench finally chimed, the sound was piercing, a digital scream that shattered the stillness. It wasn't a text or a call; it was the St. Nicholas Protocol code.
