“Mercer… the Underboss knows. Fifty million on both of you. He knows you’re in the same room.” The words hung in the air, thick with the scent of ozone and the metallic tang of fresh blood. The dying man’s eyes glazed over, his head thudding against the imported tile. Gordo shrieked again, a sound like a startled jungle bird, before scrambling backward into the utility closet, slamming the door shut. Sloane and Corso remained rooted, soles registering dull thrumming vibrations through the foundation. “Well,” Sloane said, her voice flat, “that’s one way to get a marriage off to a high-stakes start.” She straightened slowly, allowing her shoulders to roll, a micro-adjustment of her posture that spoke of imminent violence. Her gaze flickered to Corso, whose face was now utterly devoid of its usual doting warmth. The lazy charm had evaporated, replaced by the calculating intensity of a predator assessing a threat. His gaze hardened into flat, dark stone. Corso swept a glance over the broken window, the crumpled body, then to the various high-tech screens embedded in the kitchen walls, which now flashed an urgent crimson. “Right. Look, this isn’t a good Airbnb review. There’s a panic room under the main staircase. It’s fortified, stocked, and has an independent air supply for seventy-two hours. Go. Now. I’ll call the local authorities.” He spoke with level authority, his hand already reaching for the wall panel governing the estate's defenses, not a phone. Sloane arched a brow. “Local authorities? This isn’t a noise complaint, honey. That’s a full-scale assault. They didn’t even bother with a breaching charge, just drove a reinforced assault vehicle through the main gates.” A grinding crunch confirmed her words, followed by the percussive thud of heavy boots on the driveway. “And besides, if I just hid, wouldn’t that imply I’m not worth fifty million? My market value would tank. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” “Sloane,” Corso said in a gravel scrape she usually heard across hostile negotiation tables, “this isn’t up for debate. Get to safety. Go.” His command was precise, unyielding. But Sloane had heard the same inflections from high-value targets trying to assert dominance. Her own default setting was 'tactical retreat until flank maneuver is optimal.' She gave him a sweet, almost saccharine smile. “Sure, dear. Anything for my loving, completely normal… husband.” She spun on her heel, heading not for the main staircase, but for the seldom-used conservatory at the back of the house, where she knew a set of French doors led directly to the overgrown arboretum, a perfect natural cover for an undetected egress. Corso watched her go before turning back to the keypad, fingers flying across the holographic interface. Sloane, meanwhile, moved with a fluid, silent grace, her sweatpants no longer an emblem of laziness but a practical uniform for speed. She reached the conservatory as gunfire and shouts echoed through the estate. The conservatory doors, surprisingly, were not sealed. A small mercy. She slipped out, melting into the dense foliage of the arboretum. The air was cool and damp, smelling of mulch, turned soil, and combustion exhaust. Her plan was simple: loop wide, find a blind spot in the perimeter, and hit the incoming hit squad from the rear. She moved like a shadow, her hand instinctively going to the small, weighted knife she always kept taped to her ankle, just under the cuff of her sweatpants. It was less about self-defense and more about having something to fidget with when bored. She was halfway around the sprawling, manicured gardens, navigating a dense cluster of ancient weeping willows, when she heard a rustle. Not a natural one. A measured, calculated movement. She dropped into a crouch, scanning the brush. Then, a figure emerged from behind a towering cypress, clad head-to-toe in matte-black composite plating, the signature crimson-glowing optical visor of the Phantom staring directly at her. A heavy-caliber suppression rifle was slung across his back, and his hands, encased in segmented gauntlets, were already preparing to deploy a cluster charge. Corso. Fully geared. The Phantom. He froze too, the visor lenses narrowing in simulated focus. For a silent moment, the city’s two most legendary shadow freelancers stood there, having executed the exact same flanking maneuver against the exact same threat. Sloane’s carefully constructed slacker persona crumbled like dry plaster. Her micro-traps, her feigned ignorance, the entire meticulous façade… rendered utterly pointless. Then, a volley of automatic fire ripped through the willow branches above them, showering them with leaves and splinters. The Ironfang hit squad wasn't waiting for a formal introduction. Without a word, Sloane and Corso moved together. It was a terrifying, beautiful thing to witness. Sloane hooked her ankle blade and slashed across the throat of an armored gunner rounding the cypress. Simultaneously, Corso raised his suppression rifle, unleashing a measured three-round burst that shredded the vests of two more gunners pushing through the foliage. They moved as one, a symphony of deadly efficiency. Sloane dodged a pipe wrench swing, parrying with her knife and using the attacker’s momentum to fling him into a nearby fountain. Corso, meanwhile, dropped a smoke grenade, creating a temporary screen, then used the confusion to plant a series of sticky charges on the nearest perimeter wall, setting them to detonate in a staggered sequence. The first explosion ripped through a reinforced APC, sending shrapnel and black smoke skyward. “Impressive,” Sloane said, taking down another enforcer with a precise elbow strike to the temple, her voice utterly devoid of her usual casual tone. “You really went all out on the Airbnb security deposit, didn’t you?” Corso didn't reply directly. He just fired a grappling hook, swinging onto the roof of the damaged APC, gaining a superior vantage point. From there, he laid down suppressive fire, his rifle spitting rhythmic bursts that pinned down the remaining ten-man vanguard. Sloane used the distraction, her movements a fluid dance, closing the distance, her knife a silver blur in the neon-tinged twilight. She disarmed three assault troops in quick succession, using their own weapons to crack their chins. It was a silent, lethal competition, each blow matching the other's pace. Another wave of killers, alerted by the gunfire, stormed around the corner of the mansion. A hulking brute with a heavy-duty plasma cutter roared and charged Corso, who was still on the APC. Sloane scooped up a dropped carbine, sighted in, and blew the plasma cutter apart in the brute’s grip. He howled in pain, clutching his smoking stumps. Corso, seeing her cover, leaped from the APC, landing silently beside her. “I knew,” Corso said, his voice rumbling through his vocoder grill as they stood back-to-back, facing the remaining line, “the moment you deflected the sniper with that compact mirror at the courthouse. ‘Mercer’ isn't exactly a common name in the extraction trade.” He ducked under a wild swing, sweeping an attacker's legs out from under him. “I married you to protect you. The Underboss has been building a network to take down both the Retrieval Specialist and the Phantom. He knew we were rivals. He just didn't know we were… signing marriage certificates.” Sloane absorbed the confession, swinging an unconscious thug around as a ballistic shield against incoming rounds. He married her to protect her. Not for tax benefits. Not for some elaborate game. This wasn't about surviving an inconvenient marriage; it was about surviving a targeted purge. And if he knew about her, if he was willing to go this far… then the game had changed. Her new goal solidified: if she wanted to get any sleep, if she wanted her 'husband' to stop being targeted, she would have to dismantle the entire Ironfang Syndicate. She wasn't just defending her cover; she was defending her domestic bliss. And perhaps, a tiny, unfamiliar part of her, one that felt suspiciously like care, was defending him. The last of the vanguard fell, leaving a scattering of unconscious, groaning bodies amidst the manicured rose bushes and broken concrete. Sloane surveyed the damage, then turned to Corso, who was wiping a speck of crimson from his cheekplate. He unlatched his headpiece, revealing wind-swept hair and the ghost of his usual charming grin. “So,” he asked, dropping into a meek, sheepish tone, a sharp pivot from the butcher he had been moments before, “does this mean we can cancel the annulment?”

The Midpoint Massacre