She's feeling it too. The shift. The way everything just changed betweenus.
"Same as before." I sight down my rifle, tracking the first team's movement. "Kill. No hostages. We don't let them take you."
"Copy that."
The simplicity of it grounds me. I know how to dothis. I'm trained for it. Keep the asset safe. Eliminate threats. Complete the mission.
Except Maggie stopped being an asset somewhere between the warehouse and right now, and that's the problem.
The first team reaches the barn. They're using it for cover, preparing to advance on the ranch house from the north. Smart. It gives them concealment and a shorter approach to our position.
The second team is circling wide to the south, staying low, using the natural terrain—rocks and scrub brush—for cover. Also smart. They're going to try to pin us in a crossfire.
"They're boxing us in," Maggie observes, her tone clinical. "North and south approach. Force us to split our attention."
"Yeah." I'm already calculating angles, fields of fire, and probable assault vectors. "They want to overwhelm us. Make us choose which threat to engage while the other team breaches."
"So what's our play?"
Our. Not my.
Our play.
Like we're a team.
Like she's not a civilian I pulled out of a warehouse three hours ago, but an operator I've served with for years.
And the hell of it is, she moves like one. Thinks like one. The Army trained her well.
"We make them commit," I tell her. "Let them get close enough to think they have an advantage. Then we hit them hard before they can coordinate."
"That's a narrow window."
"Yeah. But it's what we've got." I shift position, check the south approach. "You take north. I've got south. Fire on my mark."
"Understood."
The teams advance. Fifty meters. Forty. Using cover effectively,moving in bounds—one man covering while the others advance. Professional.
These aren't street-level cartel soldiers.
These are trained operators. Military background, probably. Mexican Special Forces gone private, or ex-military hired for specialized work.
Which means they're dangerous.
Thirty meters.
My finger rests on the trigger, breathing controlled, heart rate steady despite the adrenaline. Despite the fact that twenty minutes ago I was kissing Maggie like I was drowning.
Twenty-five meters.
Focus. Threat assessment. Target priority.
The lead tango on the south team raises his hand. Signal to advance.
"Mark," I say quietly, and squeeze the trigger.
The suppressed round drops the lead tango. I shift, acquire the second target, and fire again. He goes down hard.
