Sloane Mercer

The air was a thick, humid cocktail of stagnant water and industrial grit, the stench almost overpowering. Agent Sloane Mercer slammed hard against the slick, moss-covered concrete of the drainage tunnel floor, the impact driving the breath from her lungs in a painful, ragged gasp. Her earpiece was crushed, useless, and the tactical light mounted on her wrist had shattered, leaving the cramped, arched passage plunged back into a suffocating, echoing darkness. She scrambled, trying to find purchase on the wet ground, her fingertips scraping uselessly as she fought the dizzying disorientation. The mission had gone sideways faster than a hijacked train; the intelligence was wrong, the extraction point compromised, and now she was trapped, vulnerable, and entirely exposed in the murky depths of London’s underbelly. A powerful boot stamped down inches from her head, jarring her vision back into painful focus. Standing over her, silhouetted against the weak, distant light filtering from a manhole cover, was the hulking form of “The Collector”—a notorious enforcer Sloane had spent six months tracking. In his hand, however, wasn't the expected combat knife or silenced pistol, but a sleek, specialized dart gun aimed directly at her neck. “End of the line, Agent Mercer,” The Collector growled, his voice deep and gravelly, the metal of his weapon glinting ominously.