A figure stood by the railing, overlooking the transaction. He wasn’t working. He wasn’t checking the crates.

He was just standing there with the specific, heavy stillness of a man who owned everything he saw. He had the right height, the right build, the right way of holding his shoulders.

"Reid," I whispered. "Upper level. Confirm."

"Thermal shows one individual," Reid replied after a beat. "Upper level east. Matches the profile of Emilio Vincenti."

We moved up the metal stairs, our footsteps muffled by the ambient hum of the facility’s generators. Cyan was a shadow at my shoulder, his breathing steady, his eyes never stopping.

As we reached the walkway, the figure turned.

It was the face from the photographs. The sharp nose, the receding hairline, the dark, calculating eyes.

Emilio Vincenti was standing five feet away from me. Finally. After months of shadows and proxies, the man himself was within reach.

We locked eyes. It was the moment everything had been building toward, a silent collision in the middle of a graveyard at two in the morning.

But as I looked at him, something felt wrong. It was a cold prickle at the back of my neck.

His reaction was off. He looked surprised, yes, but it was a fraction of a second too late.

It wasn’t the instinctive flinch of a man who had been caught; it was the performed shock of a man who had been told to look surprised.

His eyes were moving correctly, but there was no soul behind them. His body language was a learned script, not a lived reality.

Cyan leaned in, his voice barely a breath against my ear. "That’s not him."

I stepped closer, my hand hovering near my weapon. The figure didn’t retreat like a hunted man.

A real target moves with instinct, trying to create space. This man stayed exactly where he was, as if he were waiting for the next line of dialogue.

"Take it off," I said. My voice was like ice.

The man hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, his hands went to his chin. He grabbed a seam I hadn’t seen and peeled back a layer of high-grade silicone. The mask came away in a single, sickening motion.

The face beneath was entirely different. A stranger. Someone who looked enough like Emilio from a distance, but was nothing more than a hollow shell up close.

Cyan looked at the mask, then at the man. "That’s good work," he said, his tone genuinely appreciative. "The skin texture was correct. The jawline was within an acceptable margin. Excellent craftsmanship, really."

My phone vibrated in my pocket. An unknown number.

I picked up. I didn’t say anything.

"I knew you’d come," the voice said. It was Emilio. The real one. He sounded calm, his voice carrying the smug satisfaction of a man watching a movie from the comfort of his living room. "Too bad I simply didn’t feel like being there tonight, Cassian. I’m sure you understand. Better this way, don’t you think?"

The call went dead.

I looked at the phone, then at the decoy. A cold, hard anger settled in my chest. It wasn’t the heat of a fight; it was the deep, freezing rage of a man who had been made to wait. Again.

"Cassian." Reid’s voice was different now. It was sharp with alarm. "Problem."

"Report," I said.

"The accounts... when I initiated the drain, I hit a secondary layer. They’re fragmented. He’s split the funds into hundreds of micro-channels, and some of them are looping back into legitimate institutions, banks we can’t touch without triggering massive federal alerts. If I push through, I’m not just stealing from him; I’m flagging us to every rival organization and government agency on the coast. We lose the advantage of silence."

"Hold," I commanded. "Don’t push. Stand by."

"Standing by," Reid said. Then, a second later: "There’s something else. The Serbian side... their security. It’s not the six I counted."

I felt Cyan stiffen beside me.

"There are more," Reid continued, his voice tight. "They were staged differently, cold-shielded or hidden in the containers. I’m reading nine additional signatures. Professional placement. They’re already moving, Cassian. They’re closing the circle."

Cyan spoke softly, his eyes scanning the transaction floor below. "I told you the real threat was the Serbian side."

"Yes," I said. "You did."

The Vincenti guards were the performance. They were the visible layer, the ones meant to be taken down so we’d feel successful.

The Serbian professionals were the teeth.

They moved differently, quieter, more deliberate. They weren’t street thugs; they were the kind of security that cost more than the shipment they were guarding.

The space below us was changing. The transaction was over. The floor was turning into a killing field.

I turned to my two men, giving them a series of brief, specific hand signals. They nodded and melted into the shadows of the upper walkway.

"Reid," I said into the comms. "Financial hold. Don’t touch the accounts. Wait for my signal. I want him to think he’s safe for a few more minutes."

I turned to Cyan. I didn’t need to say anything. We had been in enough rooms like this to know what was coming.

Cyan was already cataloging the room. His head moved in small, sharp increments.

"Nine," he murmured. "Three coming from the east entrance. Two from the service floor below. Four holding at the perimeter."

He paused, his eyes locking onto the four men by the exits. "The four at the perimeter are the ones to watch. The others are just the distraction."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because the four at the perimeter are standing perfectly still," Cyan said, an almost-smile playing on his lips. "Everything else is moving toward us. In a situation like this, still targets are either useless or they’re waiting for something specific. They’re waiting for us to commit to the fight in the center, and then the perimeter closes like a trap."

I looked at the space. I looked at the exits. I looked at the decoy, who was still standing there with a blank, terrified expression, having realized that his part in the script didn’t include a survival clause.

The plan was dead. The operation had shifted under our feet. But the original plan was never the only plan. It was just the first move in a much longer game.

"Ready?" I asked.

Cyan adjusted his rings, his eyes glowing with that dark, forensic light. "Always."