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 sharp metallic bite of gun oil. The weapon felt heavier than anything she usually carried, longer and unfamiliar. The knife on her hip rested silent, almost ornamental tonight, its weight forgotten as she focused.
Forty meters below, the predicted entry point waited in shadow. A narrow access road lay between concrete barriers, forming the kind of choke point mercenaries trusted because it looked simple on paper.
She breathed in an unhurried rhythm, one Caruso had drilled into her until it lived in her blood like second nature.
5:47 a.m.
The first engine rumble cut the silence right on time.
Two black vehicles rolled past the first marker. They kept standard mercenary spacing, close enough to support but far enough to survive a single grenade. They were professionals, yet predictable.
