Canary Wharf's docks at night were a labyrinth of steel and concrete. Stacks of shipping containers as tall as five-story buildings formed dark corridors, sporadically lit by the dim yellow glow of streetlamps.
Two black tactical vans without license plates glided silently through the darkness, stopping behind the shadows of the container stacks in Block 40. The vans' rear doors opened, and a dozen fully armed Special Firearms Command (SCO19) operators spilled out. They moved with disciplined silence, securing the perimeter as they advanced toward Warehouse 42.
Inside the command car parked several dozen meters behind them, Arthur sat in the passenger seat, staring at the tactical monitor projecting the team's movements through infrared cameras. Elena sat behind the wheel, holding the radio communicator in one hand, which was covered by a black leather glove.
"Alpha Team, make sure you don't fire unless fired upon," Elena ordered over the radio. "We need at least one of them alive for interrogation. I want to know who sent them into my city."
"Understood, Inspector," a voice replied over the radio.
Arthur leaned back against the comfortable seat, savoring the aroma of the expensive coffee Elena had just bought from a nearby café. This was the first time in Valerian's life—or second life—that he had led an ambush against his own men from the front seat of a police car. The irony was simply too sweet to pass up.
"You look awfully relaxed, Pendelton," Elena remarked, glancing at Arthur as he slowly sipped his coffee. "We're dealing with international hitmen rumored to have military-grade weapons. This isn't a street-level drug bust."
"I'm relaxed because I trust your tactics, Inspector," Arthur replied in a smooth tone that sent a slight shiver through Elena, whether from comfort or caution, she couldn't tell. "Besides, based on Italian mafia operating patterns, they usually keep their heavy ammunition in a separate facility. This warehouse is probably only being used as a cash transit point or a secondary interrogation room. They won't expect us to arrive this quickly."
Elena turned her attention back to the screen. "You know an awful lot about the Italian mafia for a detective whose jurisdiction is limited to the alleys of Soho."
"Like I said, I listen to a lot of criminals complain in bars. They love to brag, Inspector. And humanity's greatest weakness is its arrogance." Arthur turned toward Elena, his eyes locking onto hers. "The moment you think you're untouchable is the moment that knife sinks into your back."
There was something in Arthur's gaze that made Elena's breath catch for a moment. Those eyes were too old, too dark for a twenty-four-year-old man. For an instant, Elena was reminded of the same cold sensation she'd felt when trying to crack Valerian Black's encryption code several weeks ago—the sensation of being watched by an entity vastly superior to herself.
"Alpha Team is ready to breach," the voice on the radio announced, breaking the tension inside the car.
"Proceed," Elena ordered firmly, shifting her gaze from Arthur back to the monitor.
On the infrared screen, five human figures flickered inside the warehouse. The SCO19 team blew the rear door hinges with a directional silent charge. They stormed inside like shadows. Muffled screams rang out, followed by the burst of a submachine gun.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Muzzle flashes lit up the monitor screen. Arthur watched closely. Two of the enemy's infrared dots dropped to the floor. The remaining three returned fire from behind wooden crates.
"Inspector, they're putting up heavy resistance! The suspects are using armor-piercing rounds!" the field commander shouted over the radio.
Arthur leaned forward. These were Lorenzo's men, members of the Raven Faction. They had been trained to die defending their territory, not to surrender. If they were left alive, they might leak information to Interpol that Valerian's faction was under attack, which could raise suspicions that Valerian had not been completely wiped out. Valerian needed every one of them silenced forever.
"Inspector." Arthur set down his coffee and looked at Elena with an expression of perfectly feigned alarm. "Warehouse 42 is adjacent to the port's underground gas pipeline. If the firefight continues and a stray bullet hits the line, this entire block could explode. We'll lose our operators."
Elena's face went pale. She quickly pressed a button on the dashboard terminal, bringing up a blueprint of the port. Sure enough, a gas pipeline ran directly beneath the foundation of Warehouse 42.
"Damn it," Elena muttered. She raised the radio. "Alpha Team! Pull back from your positions! Take cover—there's a risk of a secondary gas explosion!"
"We're pinned down, Inspector! One of the suspects has a double-barreled machine gun on the mezzanine level!"
Arthur didn't waste a second. Before Elena could issue another order, he opened the car door, drew his .38-caliber revolver, and ran through the darkness toward the gunfire.
"Pendelton! What the hell are you doing?! Get back in the car!" Elena shouted, stunned by the detective's impulsive—and wildly out-of-character—action. She immediately drew her Glock and ran after Arthur.
But Arthur—Valerian—moved with terrifying speed and efficiency. As he approached the ruined warehouse entrance, he didn't go in through the main route, which was heavily guarded by enemy fire. Valerian's combat instincts—the same instincts that had once allowed him to kill a cartel boss in Mexico with his bare hands—took over. He climbed the stack of wooden pallets beside the building with the agility of a panther, reaching an open second-floor glass window within seconds.
He slipped through the window and landed soundlessly on the mezzanine floor, directly behind one of the Raven Faction's shooters, who was busy spraying the police below with gunfire.
Without a moment's hesitation, Arthur raised his revolver. There was no warning shout. No police procedure. He shot the man directly at the base of the skull. The man was dead before his body hit the floor.
Arthur took the double-barreled machine gun from the man he'd just killed. He looked down toward the ground floor, where the Raven Faction's last two members were taking cover behind steel cargo crates. With mathematical precision, Arthur calculated a firing angle that would pass through the gap between the crates. He pulled the trigger. Two deafening single shots rang out in succession. The two men below crumpled, their throats and chests torn apart by bullets.
Silence instantly fell over the warehouse. The SCO19 team below remained under cover, bewildered as their enemies were suddenly slaughtered from above.
Elena stepped through the main entrance, her pistol raised, her eyes sweeping across the room, which now reeked sharply of gunpowder and blood. Her gaze rose to the mezzanine.
Arthur Pendelton stood there. He tossed the heavy machine gun onto the concrete floor, then tucked his battered revolver back into his waistband. His breathing was steady, his shoulders squared, and his face devoid of emotion.
"Area secure, Inspector," Arthur reported in a calm baritone that echoed off the warehouse's cold walls.
Elena stared at the lowly detective, her heart pounding. She had just watched a man eliminate three top-tier international hitmen in less than a minute, without the slightest hesitation or fear. This was no longer a mere change in behavior. The man standing above her, illuminated by moonlight filtering through the warehouse's rusted, perforated metal roof, was an angel of death.
From above, Valerian met Elena's blue eyes and let a restrained smile play across his lips. The first checkmate had succeeded. Lorenzo's puppies had been wiped out by the hands of the police, and Arthur Pendelton had now officially earned his reputation as MI6's newest ace.
The stage was set. The puppets had moved according to their strings. And the puppeteer was preparing to begin his main performance.