Committee operator. Black tactical gear. Weapon already tracking toward Reagan.
The Glock clears my holster. Two rounds, center mass, before he finishes crossing the threshold. The suppressor coughs twice, and he folds at the waist, momentum carrying him forward until he crashes face-first into the concrete floor. Two more shadows pour through the breach behind him, using his falling body as cover while they sweep the room with the synchronized precision of men who train together, kill together, disappear together.
"Down!" I grab Reagan's shoulder and drag her behind the heavy steel desk that dominates one corner of the command center. The impact jars through both of us as we hit the floor, and my free hand finds the rifle mounted on the wall beside it, part of Kane's insistence that every room in the safe house have accessible weapons. The stock is cold against my palm. Familiar. Steadying.
Khalid is already moving, the kid's instincts sharp enough that he doesn't need to be told twice. He slides behind coverthree feet to my left, one of his throwing knives appearing in his hand like it belongs there. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. No fear. Just focus. Waiting for direction.
Kane's rifle barks from across the room, the report echoing off the concrete walls hard enough to make my ears ring. One of the operators staggers, catches himself, and keeps advancing. Body armor stopping the round. These aren't amateurs.
Another burst of gunfire rips through the air above my head, close enough that I feel the pressure wave against my scalp. Concrete chips spray from the wall behind me, stinging the back of my neck. The desk takes three rounds in rapid succession, the impacts vibrating through the metal frame.
"Stryker, rear exit!" Kane's voice cuts through the chaos with the authority of a man who has commanded through worse than this. "Get them out!"
More gunfire erupts from somewhere deeper in the safe house. The north breach, probably. The Committee isn't coming through one door. They're hitting us from every direction at once.
The air tastes like cordite and dust. Smoke from the breaching charge drifts through the room in lazy gray coils, catching the emergency lighting and turning everything hazy, dreamlike. Nothing dreamlike about the operators advancing on our position, though. They move like shadows, covering each other, their weapons never stopping their methodical sweep of the room.
Stryker appears at my shoulder, blood already seeping from a graze across his cheekbone. The wound is raw, angry red against his pale skin, but his eyes are steady. "Move. Now. I'm on point."
Reagan's hand goes to her pocket, pressing against the outline of the drive. Everything we need to destroy Webb's operation.
"Khalid, stay tight." My voice comes out flat, focused, the tone I used to use when running Committee operations in places where hesitation meant mass graves.
The boy nods once. Meets my gaze without flinching.
We move.
Stryker leads us through a side corridor in he safe house schematics, his weapon sweeping corners with the efficiency of someone who has done this ten thousand times. The hallway is narrow, walls close enough to touch on both sides, and every shadow could hide a threat. Behind us, Kane's rifle continues its rhythm, buying us seconds that feel like hours.
"Tommy!" I bark into the comm unit on my vest. "Status on extraction routes!"
Static crackles. Then Tommy's voice from Echo Base, tight with stress. "North and east approaches compromised. Multiple vehicles blocking primary exit. Your best bet is the maintenance tunnel under the equipment room."
"Copy."
A figure appears at the corridor intersection ahead of us. Stryker's rifle speaks first, the suppressor coughing its quiet death. The operator drops, but more shadows move behind him, and suddenly we're caught in a crossfire that turns the narrow hallway into a kill box.
Rounds tear through the air from both directions. The walls splinter and crack, chunks of drywall exploding outward as bullets punch through. The noise is deafening, a constant roar that makes communication impossible except through gesture and instinct.
Reagan presses against the wall beside me, her body tense but not frozen. Plaster dust coats her hair, turns her skin ghostly white in the dim light. Days ago, she was chasing this story from behind a laptop, digging through documents and meetingsources in parking garages. Now she's following my lead without hesitation, her breathing fast but controlled.
Not her. Not today.
"Frag out!" Stryker's warning comes half a second before the grenade bounces down the corridor toward us.
Time slows. The metal canister rolls toward our position, close enough that I can see the manufacturer's markings on its surface. Close enough to count the seconds until it detonates. Too close to run. Too close to do anything except make a choice that will define whether we live or die in the next three seconds.
My body moves.
The equipment room door is two feet to my right. I grab Reagan and Khalid with both hands and hurl all three of us through the doorframe, crashing into metal shelving as the corridor behind us erupts in fire and shrapnel. The concussion wave hits like a physical blow, slamming me forward, driving the air from my lungs. Heat washes over my back, and somewhere in the chaos I hear metal screaming as shrapnel tears through the walls.
Pain rips through my side. Sharp. Deep. I register the sensation distantly, file it away for later, because right now there's smoke filling the corridor and the sound of boots pounding toward our position and Reagan is under me, gasping for breath where my weight knocked the air from her lungs.
"Dylan." Her voice is thin. Scared. "Dylan, you're bleeding."
I push myself up. The world tilts slightly, then steadies. The left side of my tactical vest is wet and getting wetter, but the wound isn't spurting. Not arterial. I'll live long enough to finish this.
"The drive." I manage. "You still have it?"
