"How many?" Dylan asks.
"Smaller team than the safe house. They're not coming in force." Kane's jaw tightens. "They're coming in as a surgical strike. It’s a targeted recon. If they knew for sure we were here, they’d send in a full team to annihilate us."
The implication lands like a blow. Not a full assault. A kill team. Coming for specific people.
Coming for me. For Khalid.
"Evacuation route?" Dylan is already moving toward the weapons cache, selecting a rifle with the familiarity of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"Compromised." Kane shakes his head. "They've positioned to cut off the primary and secondary routes. We'd have to go through them to reach the vehicles."
"Then we go through them."
"Not with civilians." Stryker's voice cuts in. "We need to hold position, let them come to us. Defensive advantage."
"They'll breach multiple entry points simultaneously." Dylan checks his rifle, chambers a round. "Standard Committee tactics. They'll split our defense, create confusion, target the principals while we're occupied."
The principals. Me. Khalid. The witnesses who can put Webb's organization in prison.
Kane nods slowly. "Then we don't let them split us. Tight perimeter. Everyone stays in the main room. Mercer takes overwatch from the loft, Stryker covers the back entrance. Dylan and I handle the front and sides." He turns to Willa. "You stay with Reagan and Khalid. Interior position."
"I can help." The words leave my mouth before I've fully thought them through. "I know how to shoot."
"Reagan." Dylan's voice carries something between warning and plea. "This isn't target practice. These are trained operators who will kill you without hesitation."
"And if they get through, they'll kill me anyway." My voice comes out steadier than my hands feel. "At least give me a chance to fight back."
A look passes between Dylan and Kane. Some communication I can't read. Then Kane crosses to the weapons cache and pulls out a compact pistol, checking the magazine before handing it to me.
"Stay with Khalid. Don't engage unless you have no choice. And Reagan." His eyes hold mine. "If it comes to that, don't hesitate. Hesitation gets people killed."
The pistol settles into my grip with the familiar weight of range hours logged over years. My editor at the Post had insisted on it after my third death threat, back when I thought angry emails were the worst part of investigative journalism. Fifteen rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. Enough to matter if I'm accurate. Enough to get me killed if I'm not.
Khalid watches me check the weapon, his dark eyes tracking every movement. "You don't have to do this. Protect me."
"Yes, I do." The certainty surprises me. "We protect each other now. That's how this works."
He doesn't respond, but his spine straightens. A fraction less afraid.
Mercer's voice comes from the loft, quiet and professional. "Visual contact. Three vehicles stopped at the tree line. Eight hostiles deploying. Tactical formation, suppressed weapons."
Eight people with military training, coming to kill a journalist and a fifteen-year-old boy.
"Everyone in position." Kane's voice carries command without volume. "No one fires until they breach. Let them commit."
The waiting is worst. Standing in the main room with Khalid pressed against my side, Willa flanking us with her own weapon drawn, listening to the silence stretch unbearably. Outside, eight people are moving through the darkness toward us. Inside, we wait for them to make the first move.
Glass shatters somewhere at the back of the lodge. Stryker's rifle barks twice, controlled bursts that echo through the timber walls. Answering fire comes immediately, the distinctive sound of suppressed weapons popping in rapid sequence.
"Contact rear!" Stryker's voice is tight but steady. "Two down, more coming."
The front door explodes inward, blown apart by a breaching charge. Two figures pour through the gap, moving with fluidprecision. Kane's rifle speaks once, twice. One figure drops. The other keeps coming, firing as he advances.
Dylan steps into the breach, engaging the shooter at close range. His movements are slower than they should be, favoring his wounded side, but his accuracy is lethal. The second attacker drops before he can adjust aim.
More glass breaking. A window in the kitchen area. Mercer's rifle cracks from the loft, the heavier report of a long-range weapon echoing through the confined space.
"One more down, eastern approach." Mercer's voice is calm, almost bored. Like he's reading a report instead of killing people.
