[Jake's POV]
The Maybach cut through Macau traffic like a blade. Ethan rode shotgun, checking magazines and sliding them into his vest one by one. Claire's voice came through the dash speakers, calm and clipped, but I could hear the tension under it.
The GPS pinged softly. Outside the windows, Macau blurred past in streaks of neon and concrete. Midday sun turned the buildings white. Tourists laughed on the sidewalks, carrying shopping bags and bubble tea and taking selfies in front of casinos. None of them knew that two blocks over, men were getting ready to bleed. The air in the car smelled like leather, gun oil, and the faint cologne Ethan always wore. He racked a slide once. The sound was small but it filled the whole cabin.
"442 Rua do Almirante Sergio. Industrial district," Claire said. "Two guards at the front gate. Four more inside the bay. One supervisor. No patrols for another 12 minutes."
