I shoved past the table, vaulted over one of the cots, and rounded the support pillar just as the second attacker stepped fully into the bunker.
He was taller than the first man —
leaner, but coiled with lethal energy.
A shaved head.
A jagged scar across his forearm.
And eyes like polished stone — dead, flat, empty of anything but calculation.
He raised a suppressed pistol.
Trigger yelled, “WOLF, LEFT!”
I dove.
The shot cracked past my ear, punching a hole in the cinderblock behind me.
The man didn’t hesitate — he stalked forward like a predator, firing again.
I rolled behind the table. The wood splintered above my head.
Havoc barreled into him from the side — a linebacker hit that slammed the attacker into the wall.
For a moment, Havoc had him.
Then —
The man pivoted, twisted, and flipped Havoc onto his back with frightening precision.
Trigger swore. “That’s special-ops training. Old school.”
Sheriff Tate fired twice — center mass —
but the man used Havoc as a shield, rolling behind the cot before disappearing behind the far support beam.
“FLANKING!” Saint shouted.
But I was already moving.
I sprinted across the bunker, dove behind the next pillar, and popped up on the far side.
The attacker was waiting.
He swung a blade — not a big one, but sharp, silent, perfect for close quarters.
I blocked with my forearm, the metal scraping skin, and slammed my elbow into his jaw.
He didn’t flinch.
He grinned.
Grinned.
And in a calm, low voice, he murmured:
“Wolf Maddox.”
