Raven lay prone on the rooftop, the rifle's cold stock pressed hard against her cheek. Pre-dawn air clung to her skin, damp with the smell of wet asphalt and the faint metallic bite of gun oil. The weapon felt heavier than anything she usually carried. Longer. Unfamiliar. The knife on her hip rested quiet, almost ornamental tonight, its weight a ghost she no longer reached for.
Forty meters below, the predicted entry point waited in shadow. Narrow access road. Concrete barriers. The kind of choke point mercenaries trusted because it looked simple on paper.
She breathed slow. The old rhythm Caruso had drilled into her until it lived behind her ribs like second nature.
5:47 a.m.
The first engine rumble cut the quiet. Right on time.
Two black vehicles rolled past the first marker. Standard mercenary spacing—close enough to support, far enough to survive a single grenade. Professionals. But predictable.
