The air in the station was thick with the scent of steel and coal, mingling with the hum of distant conversations and the shrill cries of whistles. People bustled past, dragging heavy luggage, their faces a blend of determination and fatigue. The chaos of it all made my chest tighten, and I couldn't shake the queasy feeling that churned in my stomach as I eyed the train to Amsterdam.

Frank walked slightly ahead, his silhouette steady and purposeful against the sea of motion. My steps faltered, and I blurted out before I could stop myself, "I don't know if I can do this, Frank."

He stopped instantly, pivoting on his heel to face me. His blue-grey eyes softened as he set his hands on my shoulders, grounding me. "Bell," he said firmly but gently, "of course you can. We've got a long journey ahead, so let's focus on that first. One thing at a time, alright?"

His voice had that calm, measured tone that always made it hard to argue. My doubts clawed at me, but I nodded anyway, unable to find words that wouldn't betray my panic. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. Frank wasn't the hugging type—not in the slightest—but he surprised me by pulling me close. His embrace was warm and solid, and he let out a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the past weeks.

We were both so tired. Tired of this fight, of looking over our shoulders, of carrying hope like a fragile flame in a storm. But somehow, through all of it, we'd kept moving forward. Now, as the train's whistle sounded, loud and commanding, it felt like we were finally nearing the end.

"Come on," Frank murmured into my hair, his voice softer now. "Let's get on before we lose our nerve."

He released me, and together we stepped onto the platform. The train loomed ahead, a steel beast waiting to swallow us up and take us to whatever came next.

The train hissed and groaned as it pulled away from Berlin station, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against rails quickly filling the silence. We settled into our booths, the air thick with unspoken tension. Adler, Mason, Frank, Emerson, and I crammed into booth 324, while Park, Sims, Lazar, and Keith took the one just next door, booth 325. The narrow compartments didn't allow much space, but it wasn't the closeness that bothered me. It was the weight of what lay ahead, pressing down on all of us like a heavy fog.

The ride to Amsterdam was nearly seven hours, and we had a short layover four hours in. A pit had already begun forming in my stomach at the thought of it—each passing mile felt like a countdown to whatever awaited us at the end.

Conversation was sparse, almost non-existent. The occasional cough or clearing of a throat punctuated the heavy silence. Frank, ever the methodical one, got up to lock the booth door as the city blurred past us, replaced by the shadowy outlines of trees and open fields. Once secure, we turned our attention to our gear. Nobody wanted this operation to fall apart, not after all we'd been through to get this far.

The familiar click and clack of weapons being checked was strangely soothing. Guns, ammo, grenades, and a few other items were laid out on the small table between us. It was an odd kind of ritual, one we'd all grown used to over the years. Mason handed me a cloth, and I took my 1911 out of its holster, the weight of it familiar in my hand. As I wiped it down, the metal gleamed faintly in the dim cabin light. Satisfied, I handed the cloth back and reholstered it against my leg.

In Berlin, walking around with visible holsters wasn't unheard of, but you had to wear your NATO badges or jackets to avoid questions. No badges, no jackets, and suddenly you were the kind of person people panicked over. Nobody needed that kind of attention, especially not us.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and realized my leg was bouncing—an unconscious rhythm born of nerves. Before I could stop, I felt Russell's hand close over mine. His touch was firm, grounding, and his steady gaze met mine as if to say, Breathe, you're okay.

I exhaled sharply, nodded, and stilled my leg. The tension in the booth didn't disappear, but for a moment, it felt manageable. Outside, the darkness deepened, the trees rushing past like shadows in a dream. For now, we just had to sit tight, each of us lost in our own thoughts, hoping the end of this ride wouldn't bring disaster.

The train began to slow, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels gradually fading as the city's skyline came into view. My stomach churned, a knot of unease tightening with each passing second. Outside, the weather had shifted; the grey sky above Amsterdam loomed heavy with clouds, reflecting my own uncertainty. The train's brakes screeched as we pulled up to the platform, the sign marking our arrival standing tall and cold against the muted backdrop of the city.

Hudson was already waiting for us at the station. He blended into the sea of travellers, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd until it landed on us. A curt nod was all the greeting he gave before motioning for us to follow.

The warehouse wasn't far, but the walk felt longer than it was, each step weighed down by the anticipation of what was to come. When we arrived, the biting chill in the air crept under my coat, and I zipped it up tightly. The space inside was cavernous and bare, save for a few tables, chairs, and equipment that had clearly been brought in recently.

Emerson wasted no time. As soon as we entered, he began unpacking his gear with the precision of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. He set up at a table near the back, the soft clink of tools and gadgets filling the otherwise quiet room. I watched him for a moment before turning my attention to Hudson, who stood with his arms crossed, his posture rigid as he observed everyone moving into place.

Lazar was already at the warehouse computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard. The faint glow of the screen lit up his face as he muttered something under his breath, a cigarette dangling from his lips. I approached him, and he glanced up with a smirk. "You ready for this, Bell?" he asked, his accent thick and unmissable.

"Not at all," I admitted with a nervous laugh.

He chuckled in return, a deep, warm sound that briefly cut through the tension. "We've got them by the balls," he said, exhaling a stream of smoke. "And don't forget—we're all here to back you up."

I nodded, his words settling like a weight in my chest, heavy but reassuring. I turned to glance at Emerson, who was hunched over a table, jotting down coordinates on a blank sheet of paper. His focus was unwavering, his pen scratching against the paper in a steady rhythm.

"We'll be heading out soon," Lazar said, his voice louder now as he tapped ash from his cigarette onto the floor. "Make sure your guns are loaded, Bell. This could very easily go tits up."

His bluntness was both comforting and sobering. I checked my holster instinctively, my fingers brushing the cold metal of my weapon. It struck me then, as I looked around the room, how different we all were. From different corners of the globe, with distinct accents, habits, and temperaments, yet somehow, we operated like a well-oiled machine.

Lazar's absence these past months had been keenly felt, and now that he was back, it was as though a missing piece of the puzzle had clicked back into place. We were more than a team; we were a family, forged through shared trials and unwavering loyalty.

I glanced at Lazar again, catching the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he crushed his cigarette underfoot. "We'll be alright," I murmured, as much to him as to myself.

The warehouse felt colder now, the concrete floor holding onto the chill of the night. The air was heavy with anticipation, each of us lost in our own thoughts as we made final preparations. But as I looked around at my team—faces hardened by experience yet glinting with determination—a flicker of resolve burned brighter within me. Whatever was waiting for us out there, we'd face it together.

"Lawrence!" I called out, my voice cutting through the stillness of the warehouse.

Across the room, Lawrence turned from where he stood double-checking a case of equipment. "Yes, Ma'am?" he replied, a mischievous grin already forming.

"Don't be a smartass," I said, rolling my eyes but unable to hide my smirk.

"You know I'm only messing with you," he laughed, his easy humour momentarily lightening the tension in the air.

"Yeah, yeah. Just make sure everyone's ready. Emerson's got us coordinates on Portnova's position," I said, motioning toward Emerson, who was hunched over his workstation, fine-tuning the details of our plan.

"Yes, of course," Lawrence said, giving me a mock salute before turning to relay the instructions.

The moment felt both familiar and surreal, like slipping into a well-worn routine while knowing the stakes had never been higher. One by one, we loaded into the van, weapons secured and faces grim with focus. The interior smelled faintly of oil and leather, the hum of the engine blending with the sound of weapons being cocked and holstered.

I took a seat beside Adler, his silence speaking volumes as he adjusted the strap of his rifle. Across from us, Mason sat facing me, his usual air of quiet confidence a steadying presence.

"We've got this," I said, the words a mix of reassurance and command. "Mason and Frank, you both take the lead. Sims and Park, you're at the back with me. Emerson and Adler, middle. We can't let this go tits up."

The click of my gun cocking punctuated the sentence, the sound sharp and deliberate. Lazar slid into the driver's seat, his movements smooth as he adjusted the rearview mirror. "Everyone set?" he called back, his thick accent cutting through the hum of anticipation.

"Let's move," I said, my voice steady.

The van lurched forward, tires crunching against the gravel as we pulled out of the warehouse and into the night. Shadows danced across the dimly lit streets, the weight of what was ahead pressing down on all of us. But we were ready—or as ready as we'd ever be. This mission couldn't fail. Too much was riding on it, and I refused to let anyone down.

With each mile, my grip on my weapon tightened, my thoughts fixed on the goal ahead. This was it—no turning back now.

In our respective positions, we moved with practiced precision, each step measured, every corner carefully checked. The soft shuffle of boots on concrete was the only sound as we covered each other's backs, a silent rhythm born of trust and countless missions together.

"Bell, approach the door slowly. Portnova could be just through it," Park's voice crackled softly through the comms from the back.

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. My grip on my weapon tightened, and I forced myself to take a steadying breath. Don't rush this, I thought, repeating the mantra in my head.

"Listen to me, all of you," I whispered, keeping my tone quiet but firm. "No shooting unless she shoots at us first. The room looks clear, but I have no intention of hurting her. Is that understood?"

"Clear," the team replied in unison, their voices low and resolute.

The building we had infiltrated was small, its dim corridors lined with cracked plaster and the faint smell of damp. The lack of heavy resistance was unnerving—only a few guards patrolled the perimeter, and they had been dispatched silently and efficiently.

Lazar trailed a few paces behind, his sniper equipped with a suppressor and his movements ghostlike. Through the comms, he gave us updates on the area, his voice steady and professional. "I've got a clear visual on all of you. Perimeter is secure for now."

Each of us was hyper-aware of the silence that hung over the space, a tension that coiled tighter with every step toward the door. Emerson signalled with a subtle tilt of his head, confirming the door was clear of traps.

I approached slowly, my heart pounding harder with each step. My breathing was steady, but every fibre of my being was taut with anticipation. Behind me, the team spread out, covering the angles. Mason's gaze flicked to me, giving a small nod.

This was it. Whatever was on the other side of that door, I had to face it head-on. My fingers hovered over the handle as I mouthed a silent prayer that Portnova wouldn't make this harder than it already was.

I opened the door slowly, the hinges barely creaking as I eased it open. The nose of my gun entered first, followed by my steady gaze sweeping the room beyond. My breath hitched when I saw them—three guards, maybe four. They were spread out but clearly on alert, though none had noticed me yet.

"Adler," I whispered into the comms. "I've got eyes on three. Lazar, take the one on the left. Adler, you've got the one on the right. I'll handle the middle."

"Copy that," Adler responded, his voice clipped and calm.

I steadied myself, listening to the synchronized silence before action. Then it happened—a sharp, suppressed crack echoed faintly as Lazar's shot rang true, the guard on the left dropping instantly. Adler moved almost simultaneously, his takedown clean and efficient.

I surged forward, knife in hand, closing the distance to the man in the center before he could react. My blade found its mark in a practiced strike—not lethal, but enough to incapacitate him. He crumpled to the floor with a strangled grunt, clutching at the wound. The room fell silent again, save for the faint gurgling of the wounded man at my feet.

One by one, we entered the room, our movements calculated and quiet. The air felt heavy, charged with the weight of what we were about to do. I scanned the space quickly, my eyes adjusting to the dim light—and then I saw her.

She stood near the far end of the room, her red hair a vibrant splash of color against the dull backdrop. Tall and slender, she looked almost statuesque, but the widening of her eyes betrayed her shock as she turned to face me.

"Yirina," I said, my voice steady but firm.

Her lips parted slightly, her gaze darting between me and the others. "What the hell are you doing here, Bell? And how did you find me?"

I gestured toward the single chair in the centre of the room, its placement almost inviting. "Sit," I said.

Yirina hesitated for a moment, her body taut with suspicion, but she complied, lowering herself into the chair with deliberate movements.

"You don't conceal your coordinates very well, Yirina," I said, allowing a faint smirk to tug at my lips. "Do better next time. You're smart, but not that smart."

Her expression hardened, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—apprehension, perhaps. She crossed her arms, leaning back slightly in the chair, though the tension in her shoulders gave away her discomfort.

"What do you want, Bell?" she asked, her voice laced with defiance.

I stepped closer, lowering my weapon but keeping my guard up. "A chat," I said simply. "And some answers,"

The room felt colder now, the air thick with unspoken threats and the distant echoes of everything that had brought us to this moment. But I wasn't here to hurt her—at least not yet.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Yirina," I said, my voice firm but calm. I kept my gaze locked on her, my gun lowered but still at the ready. "I am not Stitch, nor will I ever be. We're starting to piece together the whereabouts of most of DGI and Warsaw."

Yirina laughed—a sharp, derisive sound that echoed in the room. She crossed her legs, leaning back in the chair with an air of defiance. "You're lucky," she said, her voice dripping with mockery.

Her laughter grated against my nerves. I pulled my gun up, the barrel hovering inches from her forehead. The laughter stopped abruptly, her body stiffening as her eyes locked on the weapon.

"Tell me what I want to know," I said evenly.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, the room was silent save for the faint hum of Lazar's comms in the background. Slowly, I lowered the gun, giving her the room to speak.

"Positions of all Warsaw operators," I demanded, my tone unyielding. "And tell me a little more about Naga."

Yirina exhaled sharply, her eyes narrowing as she considered her response. "His name is Kapano Naga Vang," she began, her voice softer now, laced with something between resignation and caution. "Former warlord and drug lord for the cartel. He's got operations across multiple territories, distributing his cocaine lines. Stitch saw him as a valuable asset to DGI and Warsaw because of his brutality."

She leaned forward slightly, her tone darkening. "Naga is the one who wants to wring your neck, Bell. He doesn't take failure lightly, and you've been a thorn in his side for far too long."

I felt a chill run down my spine, but I kept my expression neutral. "Go on."

"Wraith has already come close to taking you and your team out," she continued, her eyes flicking to the shadows where my team waited. "But she's failed to meet Naga's expectations. Trust me, you don't want to end up on the wrong side of him."

Her words hung heavy in the air, each one a warning wrapped in a truth I couldn't ignore. I studied her for a moment, trying to gauge how much of this was fear, how much was manipulation.

"Why are you telling me this, Yirina?" I asked finally.

"Because, Bell," she said with a bitter smirk, "even a snake knows when it's cornered. Naga's a different beast. If you want to go after him, you'd better be ready to lose everything."

Her words didn't scare me—they only steeled my resolve. This wasn't over, not by a long shot.

"Keith?" I asked suddenly, watching Yirina's reaction closely. She didn't flinch, but a subtle arch of her brow betrayed her curiosity.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice neutral, though a flicker of unease crossed her features.

I laughed, letting the sound echo faintly in the room. "Stitch underestimating my power and skill yet again," I said, shaking my head. "Keith is on our team now, Yirina. Don't question it. But maybe it's enough to show just how weak Stitch and the rest of you truly are."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest twitch betraying her annoyance. Before she could respond, Adler stepped forward, his stance commanding and deliberate.

"Where are the others, Portnova?" he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Yirina hesitated for a moment, weighing her options, before finally giving us the information we needed. Her tone was clipped, her reluctance evident, but we got what we came for.

Once she had finished, I stepped closer, my gaze unwavering as I delivered my warning. "We'll have eyes on you, Yirina. Constantly. Don't fuck anything up, or you're dead."

She met my gaze, defiance flickering in her eyes. "Stitch won't let this go, Bell," she said coldly.

"I know," I replied, my voice calm but resolute. "Thank you for cooperating."

With that, I turned and began walking out of the building, my boots echoing against the floor. Frank caught up with me, laughing as he nudged my arm.

"That went a lot better than expected," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "Drinks on me tonight."

I couldn't help but smile, the tension easing just a little. "You're on," I said, my tone lighter than it had been in hours.

As we stepped out into the crisp night air, I spotted Adler ahead and jogged to catch up. Without thinking, I laced my arm around his, seeking the comfort of his steady presence.

"Think this really brings us closer?" I asked softly, my eyes scanning the quiet street ahead.

Adler glanced down at me, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—hope, perhaps.

"Closer than we've ever been," he said simply.

Maybe he was right. Maybe we really were finally nearing the end of this long, bloody battle against Stitch. And for the first time in a while, I felt ready—more than ready—to see it through.