Maggie's rifle cracks twice from her window—louder, unsuppressed—and I hear the distinctive sound of bodies hitting dirt.
Four down.
But these men are good. They scatter immediately, taking hard cover, returning fire that forces us back from the windows. Rounds punch through the walls, kicking up concrete dust, too close.
"They know our positions," Maggie calls over the gunfire. "We need to move."
She's right. Staying static gets you killed.
"North window," I tell her. "Move on my cover fire."
I lay down suppressing fire on the remaining tangos, forcing them to keep their heads down. Maggie moves fast and low, in a combat crouch, weapon ready, reaching the north window and taking up position in three seconds flat.
The Army trained herverywell.
She engages immediately. Her weapon fires twice. Once. Once more.
"Two more down," she reports, her voice controlled despitethe adrenaline I know must be screaming through her system. "That's six total."
Six tangos down. No casualties on our side.
But it's not over.
"Too easy," I mutter, scanning the perimeter through night vision. "They sent six operators against two targets in a defended position. That's either arrogance or?—"
The sound of another engine rumbling in the distance answers my question.
"Or a first wave," Maggie finishes. "Testing our defenses. Seeing what we're capable of."
"Yeah." I count headlights approaching. "And here comes the second wave."
But it's not multiple vehicles this time. Just one. Single sedan, expensive, moving slowly up the access road like whoever's driving isn't worried about an ambush.
Like they think they have leverage.
My gut clenches with recognition before my brain catches up. I know that vehicle. Saw it in the surveillance footage my contact sent.
Tyler Brooks's Tesla.
"Maggie." My voice comes out harder than I intend. "North window. Now."
She moves to my position, looks where I'm pointing, and her entire body goes rigid beside me.
"That's Tyler's car." Her voice is flat. Empty. The kind of empty that comes right before breaking. "That's his car."
"Yeah."
"He's here." She's gripping the rifle so hard her knuckles are white. "He actually came here. Helped them find me and then came to—what? Watch? Collect his payout?"
"I don't know." But I have a pretty good idea, and none of the options are good.
The Tesla stops a hundred yards out. The driver's door opens. Tyler Brooks steps out, hands raised, performing again. Even from this distance, I can see the expensive watch, the designer jacket, the confident posture of someone who thinks he's in control.
Who thinks he's safe.
"Maggie!" He calls out, voice carrying across the desert. "Maggie, I know you're in there! Just—let me explain, okay? This is all a huge misunderstanding!"
Beside me, Maggie is shaking. Not from fear. From rage.
