Fifteen meters.
The scout stops. Scans the building. I can see his night vision sweeping across the windows, and I hold perfectly still.
Ten meters.
"Now."
Frost's shot is nearly silent—a suppressed round that drops the scout like someone cut his strings. The man falls without a sound, and Frost is already shifting position.
"That tells them we're here and we're awake," he says. "They'll reassess. Commit to a full assault."
"How long?"
"Minutes." He glances at me. "You good?"
"Yeah." My hands are steady on the rifle. "I'm good."
But I'm not good. I'm watching a dead man bleed out in the dirt, and my brother helped put him there. Helped put me here. Sold me for two hundred and twenty thousand dollars and his freedom from a debt he created.
"Maggie." Frost's voice again, pulling me back. "Look at me."
I turn my head, meet his eyes in the darkness.
"You're not alone in this," he says. "Whatever happens. You're not alone."
"I've been alone since my mother died." The words come out before I can stop them. "Ten years of being the strong one. The responsible one. The one who holds everything together while everyone else falls apart."
"Not tonight. Tonight you've got me."
"One operator against six enforcers. That's not exactly good odds."
"I've fought worse." He shifts position, checks the perimeter again. "And I have you."
"Me? I don’t know how much that helps things."
"You can shoot. You can move. You can think under pressure. That's more than most people I've served with."
I’m an asset. Not a product. Not inventory. An asset in the military sense—someone valuable, capable, worth protecting.
The distinction shouldn't matter, but it does.
"They're moving," Frost says, and I snap back to the window.
This isn't going to be easy.
Frost drops the second one with a headshot. The third with a double-tap to the center mass.
Those that remain scatter, taking better cover, returning suppressing fire. Rounds punch through the wall above my head, and I duck instinctively.
"You hit?" Frost's voice is sharp.
"No. I'm good." I rise, sight through the window, and squeeze the trigger. The AR-15 kicks against my shoulder, familiar and solid. My target drops—clean torso shot.
One left.
Except, I count two shadows.
"Frost…"
