The second city was two hundred miles east.
They appeared in an alley, the scroll crumbling to ash in Eleven's hand. Above them, the sky was just beginning to lighten—the false dawn before true morning. They had hours still.
The target here was different: a safe house disguised as an ordinary residence in a wealthy district. The organization's agents here were higher-ranked, more dangerous. They would not die as easily as the laborers in the warehouse.
Number Seven and Number Eleven approached separately, circling the large house from opposite sides. They observed for long minutes, cataloging every detail. Two guards on the roof, hidden behind decorative battlements. Four more inside, rotating patrols. And in the master bedroom on the second floor, three figures sleeping—the leaders of this cell.
The plan formed without words.
Number Seven took the roof.
