CHAPTER 7
The doors of the V8-770 hissed, a sharp exhale of pressurized air that sounded far too much like a sigh of relief.
I didn't move immediately. I sat there for a heartbeat, my gold eyes squinting as they adjusted to the sudden flood of high-intensity LED light.
My hand drifted down to the blade tucked into my boot. The cold steel was a comforting weight against my skin.
It was the only honest thing I had left in this space. Outside, the garage was a cathedral of concrete, chrome, and bad intentions.
It was filled with rows of vehicles that probably cost more than the GDP of a small country, but I wasn't looking at the cars.
I was looking at the guns.
Six men in full tactical gear stood in a perfect semi-circle around my open door. Their movements were synchronized, silent, and professional—these weren't street thugs.
These were elite trained soldiers. The red dots of their laser sights danced across my chest and forehead.
