The east docks reeked of brine and rust. Steel skeletons of long-abandoned freighters loomed like rotting gods over the crumbling piers. Fog rolled in thick waves, swallowing lamp posts and wrapping the air in ghostly tendrils.
Sister Azraela crouched behind a rusted container, her breath slow, eyes scanning the perimeter of Warehouse Nine. Her robe was pinned up at the sides, revealing black leather trousers and combat boots. The two Glocks rested cold against her lower back. The rosary wrapped her wrist like holy armor. It clinked softly with each breath.
Inside the warehouse, she could hear them. Barely. But clearly. Yet not without the aid of a listening device stuck in her left ear.
Voices. Crates shifting. A generator humming like a dying animal. The whir of a drone. And deeper, laughter. Arrogant. Mocking. The kind of laughter only men with blood on their hands carried.
Suddenly, a message-buzz vibrated on her comm-band which was in silence mode. She tapped the comm-band to kill the buzzing, but the message hovered anyway: glowing, insistent.
DON'T! Leo.
She stared at the name, her jaw tightening. Father Leo. How long has it been? Two months? Three? How did he even know she was here? And just as soon, the answer came: Father Thorne. He must have told him. Of course, he did. And if that were true, then Leo Noam was the only other person alive who could make her reconsider once her mind was set. But it was too late for that now. Azraela had already stepped onto a path from which there was no turning back.
She slid the comm-band under her coat and exhaled slowly.
If Leo wanted her to back out from her resolve, he'd better come with a reason stronger than compassion and forgiveness. Because tonight, she wasn't the same girl he'd left behind.
She reached into her robe and pulled out a small vial of oil. Holy oil. She dabbed it behind each ear, down her throat, and across her wrists like perfume. Ritual. Blessing. War paint.
"Blessed are the murderers, for they shall inherit the graves," she whispered in prayer.
A whisper of wind brought the stench of cheap cigars.
Two guards.
Standing watch by the east entrance. One pacing. One glued to his phone.
Easy.
With one deep breath, she moved like vapor. A shadow in robe. She closed the gap between containers and slid behind a stack of barrels. Her movements silent. Fluid. Trained.
As the pacing guard turned his back, she struck.
A blessed garrote slipped around his neck. She pulled hard. He jerked once, eyes bulging, before slumping into her arms. She lowered him gently, whispering, "Forgive me, Father," and tucked him between barrels.
With her right hand, she flipped her robe and pulled out one gun from behind her. One was enough for this hit. Besides, she needed her left hand to operate the complementary gadgets with her, for misdirectional purposes.
The second guard never saw the silencer flash.
Two muffled pops. One to the head. One to the heart. He dropped his phone before he dropped his body.
No alarms. No panic.
Not yet.
She slipped into the warehouse like a rumor. The metal door creaked faintly, but the thrum of activity inside masked it. Overhead lights buzzed sporadically. Shadows danced between stacks of crates marked in red ink. Symbols. Codes. She didn't need to read them to know what was inside.
Guns. Drugs. Data drives. Souls sold cheap.
She moved low, hugging the edge. Counting heads.
Seven visible men.
Two on the catwalk. One near the makeshift office. Four scattered, all armed. The top Blade hadn't shown up yet.
Perfect.
She reached into her robe with her free hand and pulled out a coin-sized disc. A mini Pulse-Disruptor. Pressing a button, a red light blinked. Once.
A drone in the rafters fritzed, sputtered, and dropped like a swatted fly.
That got their attention.
"What the hell was that?" the first man grunted.
"Drone's dead!" the other replied.
"Boss ain't gonna like this," said the first man.
They moved to investigate. Two of them splitting from the group.
That was a mistake. A big one.
She rose from the shadows, a blur of black and fire. The silencer hissed like a serpent, spitting judgment. One bullet. Two. Three. Each one found a mark. Head. Heart. Head.
The two on the catwalk scrambled. One raised his rifle. Too late. A shot rang out. Silent. Clean. He dropped like a sack of sin. The second ducked for cover.
Bullets tore through crates as the others fired blindly, shouting.
"She's here!"
"Kill her! Kill the nun!"
She was already moving. Between shadows. Between sins. Her boots thudded over concrete like drums of war. She slid across the floor behind a metal crate as splinters flew.
From her pocket, her free hand pulled a smoke capsule. Threw it.
The room filled with gray. Screams. Panic.
From within the cloud, she became the storm. And the storm's eye at the same time. A whisper. A flash. A wrath not made by man.
The last one standing dropped his rifle and begged, "Please. Please, I got kids."
Azraela walked up to him slowly. Pressed the barrel to his chest. Her eyes cold. Her voice colder.
"So did my father. My mother. My sister was also a kid," she said, her eyes cold as ice. Her tears frozen, unable to drop.
He whimpered. "I wasn't there. I didn't..."
"But you're here now, serving their evil agenda."
She pulled the trigger, and the Glock Nineteen let out a silent thud!
Smoke drifted like incense as she watched the last man fall. Like a sack of potatoes.
She stood alone in the warehouse. Seven men dead. Plus two initially.
But something was wrong.
Her hand twitched. A sudden stillness behind her.
Then, she heard the repeated clapping of a hand.
Slow. Low. Mocking.
From the shadows of the office, a man emerged.
Sleek black coat. Gold rings. A face half-covered by a ceramic mask shaped like a fang.
The mark of the Blades.
He applauded her casually. "Well done, Sister. Truly. A sermon in lead and smoke. Sexy!"
She didn't lower her gun.
"Name," she said.
He smiled. "Call me," he pause, allowing the silence to boost his name, "Seraph. Fitting, no?"
"I came for answers," Azraela said coldly, unimpressed. "You'll give them. Or join them."
He chuckled. "Ah, but I already know what you seek. Vengeance. The fire. Your family. Such… devotion. But you're not ready for the truth. Not yet."
She stepped closer. "Try me."
His mask tilted. "This is only the beginning, Azraela. Or should I call you Sera Valtoria?"
Azraela flinched. Slightly. She didn't mean to. She was momentarily caught off-guard, however. How did he know my real name? she wondered. Did Kreed tell him? That cheap bastard!
"You're not hunting the Blades," Seraph continued, cutting through her thought. "Blade is just a smokescreen. What you're doing is walking into a war you don't understand. The city has," he paused for effect, "changed."
"So have I," Azraela said.
He paused. Studied her. "We know who you are. We've always known. We let you live. Let you train. We need talented warriors like you."
That stopped her. Briefly. "What do you mean 'need'?"
Seraph smiled. "You'll see. Soon. But for now…" He raised his hand.
And a clicking sound suddenly caught her off-guard.
The floor beneath her shuddered. She realized too late what he'd done. From beneath the crates, a Pulse Bomb detonated. Blinding white light. A flash. A scream. Her own.
Then, darkness.
And something else: a swooshing! sound swept her off before she completely passed out.
She awoke somewhere else inside an old abandoned building, far away from the warehouse. Alone. Safe. Blood on her temple. The twin Glocks missing. Her gadgets gone.
She sat up slowly, head throbbing. Rain began to fall again.
The city sighed.
And Sister Azraela whispered through clenched teeth: "I'm not done."
Not by a long shot.