Alex’s eyes locked onto the only figures he could see that weren’t fleeing, and some predatory instinct cultivated through long practice recognized them as hostiles. Four of them, spanning the width of the street. It was the assurance they moved with. Deliberation while the world around them devolved into chaos. But what the fuck kind of assault team were they? Baggy black clothing, hoods drawn low over their faces. Their uniforms were a tactical nightmare, and didn’t ring familiar for any of the more ideological terror organizations SCORPIA sometimes encountered.
They were advancing down the street without care for who might see them.
That was a mistake.
The shock of the ambush was receding, leaving cold purpose behind in its place. MI6 was plainly incapable or unwilling to secure its own territory. That oversight would be remedied.
Center-left, target raised a hand, sleeve flapping back to reveal pale, unprotected skin underneath. No visible armor. No visible weapon but a curling tattoo that appeared to move and twist.
That was good enough for Alex. He wasn’t Yassen, probably never would be. But… four targets in a line. Put three down, try and secure the fourth for retrieval and interrogation.
Not waiting to see if the target had some sort of remote for a secondary device, Alex deepened his stance and pulled the trigger. The target dropped. Before the retort from the gun faded, so had another.
He expected return fire, but the other two were recoiling, bulky robes swirling as they tried to retreat from the bodies of their teammates, In the chaos, one of their hoods fell back to reveal a stylized mask underneath. Identifying details. Alex adjusted his aim and fired again.
His bullet never met its target, because his target was suddenly gone.
Not collapsed, not fleeing. Both of the remaining targets vanished as if they had never been there at all, except for the two bodies cooling on the asphalt.
