The side hatch of the XV-9 Ghost slid fully open, and the humid, night air of Tennessee rushed into the cabin. Below them, the rolling, wooded hills of Oak Hill were dotted with the amber glow of streetlights, but their target was unmistakable: a sprawling, luxury white mansion that sat like a fortress atop a manicured limestone ridge.
Vance checked the luminous display on his blue iPhone one last time, syncing the mansion's exterior sensor grid to his HUD. "Dropping in three... two... one. See you at the party, Vlad."
Vance moved first. With his compound bow collapsed and magnetized to his back, he pushed off the ledge. He didn't just fall; he carved through the air, his black wingsuit expanding to catch the thermal currents rising from the Nashville basin. He was a shadow against the moon, steering himself toward a dense cluster of oaks overlooking the mansion's north wing.
Vlad followed a second later. He didn't use a wingsuit; he dropped straight and heavy, a kinetic bolt aimed at the mansion's blind spot.
The wind roared past his ears, whipping against his tactical suit as the white marble of the estate rushed up to meet him. At the last possible moment, he pulled his high-tension ripcord. The micro-parachute deployed with a silent thwip, slowing his descent just enough for him to stick a silent landing on the soft, manicured grass of the back lawn.
Vlad stayed low, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the dagger at his thigh. The luxury house was quiet, its white columns gleaming under the security floodlights, but he knew the beauty was a mask for the tech hidden within.
High in the oak canopy, Vance perched with his bow drawn, a thermal-scanning arrow notched and ready. He tapped his comms. "I'm in the nest. Ghosting the perimeter cameras now. You've got a ten-second loop starting... now."
Vlad sprinted across the open patio, his boots making no sound on the expensive stone. He reached the shadow of a grand French door, pressing his back against the cool white brick.
The op was live. In the heart of Oak Hill, the Agency's finest had arrived.
Vlad pressed himself against the cool, white limestone of the mansion, but the silence of the Oak Hill estate was a trap. Before Vance could chirp a warning through the comms, a shadow lunged from a decorative hedge.
A female security guard, moving with the explosive speed of a collegiate sprinter, collided with Vlad's midsection. The force was enough to knock the air from his lungs, and together, they went over the edge of the manicured lawn. They tumbled down the steep, grassy embankment, a chaotic blur of black tactical gear and dark blue security Kevlar, before slamming into a level clearing near the treeline.
Vlad's combat instincts took over. Using his superior mass and center of gravity, he twisted in the dirt, throwing his weight forward. He pinned her wrists against the damp earth, his knees locking her hips in place. He stared down, momentarily stunned by the ferocity of the ambush. He hadn't expected the elite Nashville detail to include a woman of this caliber.
"Get off me!" she shouted, her voice echoing against the limestone ridge.
Quickly, Vlad clamped a gloved hand over her mouth, stifling the alarm. "Look, cutie," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, "you aren't my target. I don't hit women."
He didn't reach for his daggers. Instead, he reached into a concealed pocket at the small of his back and pulled out a specialized pre-loaded injector.
The guard didn't go quietly. She fought with a desperate, wiry strength, her fingernails digging into the toughened fabric of his sleeves, clawing at his forearms to break his grip. Vlad ignored the sting, his focus absolute. He pressed the needle into the side of her neck, engaging the trigger.
The cocktail of Propofol and benzodiazepines surged into her system. Almost instantly, the tension drained from her body. Her hands slipped from his arms, her eyes fluttered shut, and her head fell back against the grass. She was out cold, her breathing steady but deep.
Vlad stayed there for a second, catching his breath as the Nashville crickets resumed their chirping.
"Vlad, report," Vance's voice crackled in his ear, sounding slightly concerned. "I lost your heat signature in the brush. You good?"