"Echo Team," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Execute." And just like that, James offered me a nod and jumped out of the van.
There was no dramatic explosion. No Hollywood thunder.
On the helmet cam feed, the lead operator placed a small, pancake-shaped breaching charge on the rusted metal door's lock. Precise. Controlled. He backed away, hand raised in signal.
A muffledcrumpechoed faintly from the direction of the mill, a sound more of pressure than noise, a dull thump felt in the chest rather than heard.
The door blew inward in near-silence. Smoke curled. The shadows poured inside like water finding a crack.
I stopped breathing.
The radio chatter became a staccato rhythm of professionalism that felt surreal, disconnected from the reality of what was happening.
"Echo One, clear. Entry point secure."
My daughter was three floors above those men. Three floors and however many yards of concrete and rust and industrial debris between her and safety.
"Moving to stairwell alpha. Visual on barricade. Confirmed. Heavy industrial debris."
The thermal image showed the three prowling signatures still moving. Pacing near the windows. They hadn't heard the breach yet. Hadn't reacted.
"Deploying hydraulic entry. Cover the angles."
On a different screen, the helmet cam showed the barricade up close, a nightmare of twisted metal. Old industrial looms, their frames rusted but still massive. Metal shipping pallets. A tangle of chains. Carter had built this obstacle with meticulous care. With time and planning, and hatred.
The spreader was positioned. Its hydraulic whine was faint through the audio feed but unmistakable, a high-pitched scream of metal against metal.
On the thermal, one of the pacing signatures near the windows stopped.
My heart stopped with it.
The heat signature's head, a brighter spot, turned sharply toward the sound.
He'd heard it.
Then, a new sound. Not from the radio. Not from the speakers.
From the mill itself.
Echoing across the empty waterfront, distorted by distance and concrete and the early morning air, but unmistakable.
A man's voice. Raised in a shout of raw alarm. Rage and panic merged into something primal.
Carter.
The sound made every hair on my body stand on end.
It was followed, a heartbeat later, by another sound. Different. Higher.
A cry, stripped of all control, all humanity. Pure terror that sliced through the dawn and through my soul like a blade made of ice.
Daisy.
Her name was a silent explosion in my throat. My body moved before my brain could authorize it, lunging for the van door, hands already reaching for the handle. A fear, building in my chest, primal and unstoppable.
I had to get to her. Now. Right now. Fuck the plan, fuck the tactical approach, fuck everything—she wasscreaming, my daughter screaming, and I had to?—
Vance was there.
