“Four. Three. Two.”
“Go,” Ethan said, all business.
Everything happened at once. A concert of impact and chaos: tire shrieks, the screech of metal grating metal, crunches that rattled through my chest. Flynn’s truck jammed the road. The convoy’s lead security ride stood on its brakes, tires howling over the tarmac. The Mercedes behind slipped sideways, almost taking out the next car in the stack.
Then Rafe let the first charge go.
The blast wasn’t Hollywood massive, but it was close enough. Smoke geysered up as the overpass collapsed, trapping the convoy as planned.
“That’s one,” came Rafe, deadpan even with adrenaline amped. “Want number two?”
“Negative,” Ethan shot back. “Stick to the plan. EMP on my mark. Three. Two. One. Now.”
Leo hit the trigger. Headlights on the security vehicles fizzled out, engines coughed and died, the night swallowing up every sound. Just like that, doors flew open, and guards started pouring out, weapons up.
Lyric didn’t hesitate. From her perch, she laid down cover fire with non-lethal rounds. Guards went down, not dead, but hit hard enough to keep them hugging the pavement. Enough to break bone. Enough to make them rethink every life choice.
Two quick pops rang out, different from the controlled shots I’d been hearing. Leo’s body jerked backward, and I heard him grunt in pain over the comms.
“Taking fire!” His voice was strained.
“You hit?” Alistair shouted.
“Rounds to the vest. Hurt like hell but didn’t punch through.”
“All teams, weapons free,” Ethan commanded, his voice turning to steel. “I repeat, weapons free. Protect the package at all costs.”
The tone of the firefight changed instantly.
More guards poured from vehicles, better armed than we’d anticipated. The whine of bullets sliced through the air, pinging off metal, cracking into pavement. This wasn’t the clean extraction we’d planned. This was a war zone.
“South side’s got three shooters,” Lyric reported, same as always, calm even when things got wild. “Taking them now.”
Three suppressed shots, spaced the way only training and nerves could deliver. Three more guards folded, but this time their blood stained the pavement.
“Mercedes driver’s trying to run the blockade,” Flynn said. “Taking him out.”
Another crack. The driver slumped, and the car skidded out, blocking both lanes in dramatic fashion.
“Fuck!” Trent flung the van door wide and jumped out, tossing a warning over his shoulder. “Stay down until I call.”
Then he was gone, racing toward the Mercedes.
I caught the moment through the sliver in the van door. Trent made it to the Mercedes and yanked open the rear passenger side. He reached in, then straightened, and brought out?—
Sophia.
My daughter.
Alive.
Her small body was cradled against his chest, face buried in his shoulder, her hair tangled, her pink shirt rumpled. But she was here. Alive. Thirty feet away from me.
I was moving before conscious thought told me it wasn’t a good idea, throwing myself out of the van, sprinting across the exposed highway toward my daughter.
Bullets pinged off the pavement nearby.
Someone shouted for me to get down.
