NICHOLUS’ POVThe garage smelled of oil, rubber, and old blood. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead like dying insects. I knelt beside the stripped-down bike, fingers black with grease, threading the final bead lock into the tire with slow, precise twists. Metal groaned under my grip. I didn’t look up when boots scraped the concrete behind me.“VP?”“Speak.”My voice came out flat. Ice. I kept working.“The message has been sent successfully, VP.”I stopped. Set the wrench down. The clink echoed. Only then did I rise, turning to face Sarge. He stood rigid, six-three of solid muscle and scars, but his shoulders twitched once when my eyes locked on his. He forced them still. Good. I allowed no weakness in my circle. Fear sharpened a man. Cowardice buried him.Sarge held my stare exactly as trained.I wiped my hands on the rag hanging from my belt. “Details.”“Clean. No witnesses. Target received it at 0300. Our man confirmed from the ridge.”I nodded once. “No feed.”He opened his mouth
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