Roman Moretti’s girlfriend threw scalding coffee on a six-year-old girl in the middle of his Manhattan penthouse restaurant, smiled, and said, “That’s what happens when staff forget their place.” She thought the child would run to her mother.

The winter wind howling outside the Adirondacks safehouse suddenly fell dead silent, replaced by the ominous crunch of heavy boots on the frozen snow outside the porch.

Marisol stood frozen in the center of the living room, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the wooden coffee table. On the sofa just a few feet away, six-year-old Chloe stirred in her sleep, whimpering softly as if sensing the encroaching danger.

"Vance," Marisol whispered, her voice tight with panic. "Move her. Now."

Vance didn't hesitate. He scooped Chloe into his arms, wrapping the heavy wool blanket around her, and motioned frantically toward a concealed panel hidden behind a bookshelf in the corner of the room. "In here, Ms. Alvarez. Move!"

Marisol rushed behind him, casting one terrified glance toward the heavy timber front doors.

Roman Moretti stood alone in the center of the room, completely motionless. He hadn't turned on the overhead lights; the only illumination came from the dying amber embers of the stone fireplace, casting long, dancing shadows across his broad shoulders. He held his Glock down at his side, his thumb resting casually against the safety.

Bang.

The first bullet shattered the reinforced glass of the side window, embedding itself deeply into the stone hearth with a sharp crack.

Instantly, the front doors exploded inward under the force of a breaching charge. Shrapnel and splintered wood rained across the entryway as three masked operatives in tactical black gear poured into the cabin, rifles raised and sweeping the room with tactical precision.

"Clear!" the lead operative barked through a voice modulator.

They expected panic. They expected a scramble for cover.

Instead, they found Roman standing right in the open, staring at them with an expression of profound, chilling disappointment.

"You brought three men for me, Viktor?" Roman’s voice cut through the dim room like a blade of ice. "I expected better from a syndicate boss."

The lead operative swung his rifle barrel directly toward Roman’s chest. "End of the line, Moretti. The boss wants your head on a spike—"

He didn't get to finish the sentence.

Roman moved with terrifying, unnatural speed. In a single fluid motion, he raised his weapon and fired twice. The lead operative dropped instantly, a clean round piercing his ceramic chest plate with brutal kinetic force.

The two remaining operatives scrambled to return fire, their assault rifles chewing up the wooden floorboards and shattering the furniture. Wood splinters flew through the air as Roman ducked behind the heavy oak dining table, using it as improvised cover.

Clack-clack.

Roman reloaded in a fraction of a second, his movements mechanical and practiced from decades of street warfare. He didn't yell. He didn't panic. He simply calculated angles and lethality.

Popping up from behind the table, Roman fired twice more. A deafening cry echoed as the second operative took a round to the shoulder, his rifle clattering uselessly against the stone floor. The third operative tried to retreat toward the shattered doorway, but Roman closed the distance in three long strides, kicking the man’s legs out from under him and driving the butt of his pistol down hard against the operative’s helmet.

The man slumped into unconsciousness with a dull thud.

The entire firefight had lasted less than twenty seconds.

Roman stood over the fallen mercenaries, his breathing controlled and steady. He didn't even look down at them. He holstered his weapon, walked calmly over to the fireplace, and grabbed a poker to stir the embers.

A heavy, echoing thud came from the hidden panel behind the bookshelf. Vance stepped out into the room, setting a sleepy Chloe down gently while Marisol followed closely behind, her eyes wide with shock as she took in the bodies sprawled across the floor.

Marisol gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she stepped back. "Roman... are you..."

"I'm fine," Roman interrupted, not looking up from the fire. He tossed the poker back onto its stand and turned to face them. "Vance, secure the gear. These men weren't sent here to kill me. They were sent here to draw me out."

Vance knelt beside the lead operative, tearing away the black tactical vest to reveal a heavy electronic transceiver strapped to the man's chest. The device was blinking with a rapid, rhythmic green light.

"It's a relay beacon, boss," Vance said, his face tightening. "They weren't an assassination squad. They were an anchor. They wanted us to fire our weapons, to blow our cover, so the satellite uplink could triangulate our exact coordinates."

Roman’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "How long?"

"Signal went out three minutes ago," Vance said, checking his tactical wrist-pad. "Choppers are already in the air. We have less than ten minutes before this entire mountain is surrounded."

Marisol felt the floor drop out from under her. She rushed over to Chloe, who was waking up, rubbing her sleepy eyes and looking around in confusion. "Mommy? What was that loud noise?"

"Nothing, sweetheart," Marisol said, her voice shaking violently as she pulled the little girl into a tight embrace. "Mommy's here. Everything's fine."

Roman didn't sugarcoat it. He walked straight over to them, his tone absolute and urgent. "Vance, get the armored transport out of the subterranean garage. We're heading for the secondary extraction point at the old rail yard."

"And if they cut off the pass?" Vance asked.

"Then we carve a new one," Roman said coldly.