Arora and her forward strike team moved like phantoms through the dense, frozen expanse of the Icelandic pine forest.
The pale crescent moon barely pierced the heavy, snow-laden canopy above. Every single member of the Black Rose moved with lethal, practiced precision—their insulated tactical boots stepping so lightly that the fresh powder beneath them barely made a sound. The only trace of their presence was the faint mist of their breath dissolving instantly into the sub-zero night air.
Suddenly, Arora raised a clenched, black-gloved fist.
Behind her, the entire unit froze in mid-stride.
Without looking back, she pointed two fingers toward the towering pine trees flanking their vector.
