Revelstoke was quiet at dawn—mountains ghosted in pale blue, frost drifting off rooftops, the kind of stillness that made the world feel paused. Ideal for an operation like this. Ideal for killers like the ones who were about to arrive.
Delilah stood outside the safehouse porch with a cup of cheap coffee, hood up, hair dyed brown and braided over one shoulder. Four days of reconnaissance had fallen into her bones like muscle memory. She knew patrol rotations, supply routes, guard shifts, the rhythm of the facility's alarms, and the weak point in their perimeter fence where the snow drifted just high enough to hide a crawlspace.
She also knew the town now—shopkeepers, the grocer who loved to talk, the teenagers who smoked behind the old church, the mail carrier who always asked if she was "settling in okay." Marie Chevalier had become real to the people of the town.
And today, the first member of her team arrived.
Taskmaster stepped into view.
Taskmaster moved with the precise economy of someone who wasted nothing—not breath, not motion, not thought. Long coat, hood drawn low, skull-pattern mask blank and cold. He walked like a soldier who had memorized the posture of every soldier who ever lived.
He stopped three paces from her, "Delilah, I figure right?" Not a greeting. A measurement.
"Taskmaster, I assume," she replied, matching his neutrality. "You're a bit late, I expected you yesterday."
"Time is a weapon. People who waste it die first. I arrived yesterday, but I wanted to get an idea of the lay of the land."
Her eye twitched. "I had the same idea. Good to know we understand each other."
He looked her over—not like a man assessing a woman, but like a tactician scanning a battlefield. He was memorizing her stance, weight distribution, shoulder tilt, micro-movements. Copying her.
"Mark said you're commanding this op," he said.
"Yes, I am."
A long pause, then he stepped closer, "Prove it."
He dropped his duffel bag. His gloved fingers flexed once—an invitation, a challenge, a threat.
Delilah took one last sip of her coffee, swallowed, and set the mug on the railing. She then looked up, "Fine, let's hurry up."
They moved at the same moment—Taskmaster with flawless technique, Delilah with vicious efficiency. His strikes were textbook-perfect; hers were born of dirty street fights and mob ambushes. He mirrored her rhythm mid-swing—copying her speed, her footwork, her stance—as if learning her like sheet music.
He caught her wrist. She twisted free. He swept her legs. She rolled and came up swinging. A knife flashed in her palm—
—but he had already predicted that.
His boot caught her hip, sent her sliding back across the porch.
Delilah grinned, "Oh, you're going to be a fun headache."
Taskmaster lunged—
She stepped inside the arc, dropped her weight, and slammed her elbow into the hinge of his jaw. The impact rattled his mask. A second strike snapped his balance. A third sent him to one knee.
She panted, chest rising and falling. "Yield."
Taskmaster slowly rose, cracking his neck.
"If the fight lasted another minute," he said, "you'd lose."
"I know."
He paused.
Then he nodded—sharp, approving.
"Good answer. I accept your command."
As soon as they finished, Domino strolled up the driveway like she'd been there a thousand times, hands in pockets, expression a mix of amused boredom and someone who'd already decided whether she liked you before you even spoke.
The black leather jacket, pale skin, raven hair streaked with white—she was impossible to mistake.
She glanced at Taskmaster, then at Delilah's bruised lip, "Fun little icebreaker you two had?"
"We were just getting to know each other," Delilah said.
Domino smirked. "You're still standing after fighting him. Good. I hate working for pushovers."
She flicked a coin into the air. It bounced off Taskmaster's shoulder, landing perfectly upright in the snow.
Domino didn't even look down.
"That was luck," Taskmaster said flatly.
"Everything with me is luck, bonehead," She then turned back to Delilah, "You're the boss lady, huh— so when do we start blowing things up?"
"Soon," Delilah replied. "We're waiting on one more."
Domino stretched her arms with a lazy sigh. "Always someone late to the party. Glad it's not me."
Silver Sable arrived in a matte-gray SUV that rolled to a halt in front of the house. The back door opened, and Silver Sablinova stepped out in full Wild Pack attire—silver armor plates fitted over tactical black, hair tied back, eyes assessing everything in sight in under two seconds.
Professional. Efficient. Impossibly composed.
Her gaze fell on Delilah.
"You are the field commander, yes?"
Delilah squared her shoulders. "Yes."
Sable's face remained unreadable—cool, almost regal. She extended a gloved hand.
"We do not need to like each other," she said. "But we will work professionally. This mission promises a high payout. That is enough."
Delilah shook her hand. "Agreed."
Sable nodded once and turned to Domino.
"You are early."
"Yeah," Domino replied, "I was bored."
"And you," Sable added, turning to Taskmaster, "still insist on wearing that ridiculous mask."
Taskmaster crossed his arms. "Function over fashion."
"Then functionally remove it. You look like a Halloween decoration. It'll draw unneeded attention."
Domino snorted. Taskmaster glared. Delilah sighed.
God help her.
The rumpled sedan rolled up last.
Mikhail Kovac—Mack—stepped out looking like a man who lived in permanent exhaustion. Trench coat, coffee stain, dark circles under his eyes, folder under his arm labeled Northbridge – Operation Nightbloom.
He gave Delilah a nod, "Safehouse still intact? You kids didn't destroy it fighting, did you?"
Delilah pointed to the safehouse, "It's still fine, as you can see."
He walked past the three mercenaries without flinching—though Delilah caught the subtle tension in his shoulders when Taskmaster turned to look at him.
"Let's get this moving," Mack said stiffly. "Wild Pack's second truck is coming around."
He signaled, and two Symkarian-marked van pulled into the driveway. Eight Wild Pack operatives hopped out and began unloading crates of weapons—ammunition, infiltration gear, breaching tools, comms units.
Domino inspected a crate. "Ooh. Looks like Christmas morning. Except we're still in September."
Taskmaster took a tactical rifle apart and reassembled it in under five seconds, making sure it functioned well and to show off a little.
Silver Sable oversaw her operatives with military precision, correcting their movements without raising her voice.
Delilah breathed out.
This team could probably take a whole city. She wondered what the Facility was like to need all this.
Inside the safehouse basement—converted into a two-bedroom bunker with a long wooden table—Delilah stood before the team.
A map of the facility lay spread across the surface.
Mack leaned against the wall with a clipboard, trying very hard to look like he wasn't dying inside.
Delilah pointed to the perimeter, "Four days of observation gives us a full behavioral pattern. The facility is located forty minutes outside the town and has two gates—front and cargo. The front is useless as it's too heavily guarded. Cargo is our best entry point."
She tapped a line at the forest edge.
"This fence section dips because snow piles against it. It's reinforced, but old. We should be able to cut through here without being seen."
Domino leaned over the table. "And what about motion sensors?"
"Half of them don't work in heavy snow. The other half are directional and blind spots overlap here and here." She marked them. "If you follow this path exactly, the cameras shouldn't see us."
Taskmaster nodded. "Good. Continue."
Delilah pointed to the central structure.
"Target one is a scientist working at the facility named Sarah Kinney. Geneticist. High-level clearance. She sleeps in the south wing. From the intel provided by the person bankrolling this mission, she can either be found in her lab or in her daughter's containment unit."
She circled a smaller dot deeper in the facility.
"That brings us to the other target called X-23. Laura, the daughter of Sarah Kinney. Eleven years old. Weaponized mutant. Potentially lethal. They keep her in isolation—heavy restraints, sedation routine. I think it's best to split the team to acquire both targets simultaneously."
Silver Sable folded her arms. "And exfiltration?"
"A stolen cargo truck. I've memorized the patrol timing. We have a three-minute window before they log discrepancies."
"And the kill targets?" Taskmaster asked.
"Dr. Martin Sutter and Dr. Zander Rice," Delilah replied. "Both are to be eliminated if nothing else. Rice must die from long range. No exceptions. As for the rest, if possible, the third objective would be to destroy the facility and kill every member; however, if we're unable to do so, then completing the first two objectives is enough. Completing the third objective, I'm told nets each person an extra five million."
Domino whistled softly. "The boss wants that man specifically dead and for us to burn the entire place to the ground. I wonder why?"
Delilah didn't answer. She herself didn't know the answer to that question either.
The room went still.
Mack finally cleared his throat.
"This is the job. Remember, you're all to follow Delilah's lead. You do not improvise. You do not get creative. You do not make me clean up your corpses. Understood?"
Taskmaster responded, "Understood."
Domino said, "Yeah, yeah."
Silver Sable nodded, "Agreed."
Delilah rolled up the map.
"We go in two days, a heavy snowstorm will roll in midday. We'll infiltrate in the morning, and by midday, we should escape with the snow covering our tracks. Rest. Train. Learn each other's rhythms."
Domino cracked her knuckles. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."
Taskmaster tilted his head. "We'll see."
Silver Sable simply nodded.
Mack muttered under his breath, "Luc, you bastard."
Delilah looked over the team—mercenary legends, killers for hire, professionals forged by fire and war. "Mack, that reminds me, contact Luc and have him inform Sarah that we'll hit the facility in two day's time. It'll make our job easier if she can go to her daughter, and if not, at least be as close as possible."