It had been a long night for Helena. She’d trailed the Falcone runners from the docks to a quiet warehouse outside Burnley. The intel was solid—guns, cash, maybe a lead on Cassamento’s last enforcer.

Perched in the rafters, crossbow steady, she watched the smugglers move crates below. Then the lights cut out. Fast. Clean. Professional.

A figure landed in the shadows opposite her, just as silent.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re in my way, not in the mood company tonight."