He slung his rifle and rappelled silently down the back wall of the gallery, landing behind a row of server racks. He removed his helmet, then his boots. Barefoot, he crept to the edge of the crowd. He found a lab coat, shrugged it on, and smeared coolant grease on his face. Then he stood up, hands raised, and stumbled into the hostage group.
Maverick threw a single dart—not at Fenris, but at the power relay behind him. The smart-dart curved mid-flight, struck the switch, and the entire gallery plunged into emergency darkness. Red lights flickered. Alarms blared. The cryo-vault’s magnetic seals began to fail. maverick igi
“Good work, IGI. They’re calling you a maverick again.” He slung his rifle and rappelled silently down
Maverick’s jaw tightened. Fenris. He’d trained with him. Laughed with him. Then watched him burn a safe house in Prague with three fellow agents inside. Fenris didn't do hostage negotiations. He did theater. Geneva was a silver scar in the pre-dawn rain. Maverick didn’t use the front entrance. He went in through the sub-level helium recycling vents—a route only someone who had studied the IGI’s architectural schematics for six months in a safe house outside Vladivostok would know. He found a lab coat, shrugged it on,
He chose deep.
He smiled—a rare, tired thing. “Tell them to call me for breakfast next time. I’m getting too old for 3 AM.”