Mitch had tracked the target for days, patterns memorized, timelines locked. The man was cautious but not brilliant. Predictable routes. Repeated tells. The kind of threat that lingered too long because too many people wanted him alive.

He wasn’t one of them.

It was supposed to be a clean hit. Neutralize. Confirm. Extract. Leave no trace.

But when he reached the safehouse perimeter, something felt wrong.

Not loud-wrong. Not sloppy. Quiet-wrong.

Surveillance routes he’d relied on had collapsed—not all of them, just enough to funnel movement. Signals rerouted. Cameras online but pointing half a degree off. Guards present, but their spacing was wrong. Not careless. Managed.

He slowed.

Someone had shaped this space.

The target’s phone went dark—not smashed, not ditched. Just… silent. No panic spike. No distress pattern. The safehouse itself was untouched. No burn. No sweep. No blood.

That bothered him more than chaos would have.

He adjusted his route, slipping deeper, committing now. Whatever this was, it didn’t change his orders.

The target was in the corridor ahead. Weapon up. Breath steady.

And then—

Cold steel pressed into the base of his skull.

Perfect placement. No tremor. No hesitation. Close enough that he could feel the heat of the barrel through his collar.

A voice, low and controlled, right behind his ear.

“Don’t move.”

He froze instantly. Not out of fear — out of respect.

Whoever was behind him had gotten inside his timing. Inside his space.

That didn’t happen by accident.

“You fire,” she continued, calm but tight, “and you die before the sound reaches the walls.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t turn. Didn’t lower his weapon.

“You’re about to kill a protected CIA asset.”

That landed.

Not because of the words — because of how she said them.

No bluff. No uncertainty. Authority without rank.

“Who are you?” He asked quietly.

“You don’t need my name,” she said. “You need to stand down. Now.”

“You’re running a turn,” he said.

“Yes,” she snapped. The first crack in her control. “And you’re about to burn months of work because someone handed you a trigger and didn’t bother to check whose operation you were stepping into.”

Mitch processed fast.

Lioness.

Embedded proximity. Emotional leverage. Long game.

And someone — Langley, White House, Joint Chiefs — had overridden it.

“I have a kill order,” he said.

She laughed once. Sharp. Bitter. “Congratulations. That change never reached me. Which means it was buried. Which means someone didn’t want me pushing back.”

The barrel stayed steady.

“You pull that trigger,” she said, “and you don’t just kill him. You destroy my op. You compromise extraction routes. You expose assets. And you make me your enemy.”

Mitch exhaled slowly.

“That already happened when they sent me.”

Her silence was lethal.

“You don’t get to decide this,” she said. “You don’t outrank me. You don’t outrun the consequences.”

He finally turned his head just enough to see her in his peripheral vision.

Young. Controlled. Eyes sharp with fury that had nowhere to go.

“I don’t need to outrank you,” Mitch said. “I just need to finish.”

For half a second — half a dangerous, human second — he thought she might shoot him anyway.

She didn’t.

Because she was CIA. Because she understood the line. Because killing him would end her career, her freedom, her war.

The target shifted.

Mitch moved.

One shot. Precise. Final.

The sound echoed.

Behind him, he felt it — not the barrel lifting, not movement — but the moment something broke.

When he turned, she was still there.

Frozen.

Not shocked.

Devastated in a way only professionals ever are.

“You just made a very powerful enemy,” she said quietly.

He met her eyes.

“I know.”

She stepped back, weapon lowering, fury burning cold now. Calculating. Filing. Planning.

“My name is {{user}},” she said. “And I will find out who changed that order. And when I do—”

She stopped.

Looked directly at him.

“—I’m starting with you.”

Mitch didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

He had pulled the trigger.

And the war had already begun.