Jackson
PRECISION CONTROL
The C4 sitsin my palm like a promise—1.4 ounces of controlled destruction, waiting for my command.
I place it against the concrete pillar, measuring exactly seven centimeters from the support beam’s stress point. The training warehouse reeks of dust and metal, Seattle rain drumming against the roof in a rhythm that matches the steady beat of my heart. Four Cerberus operators watch from behind the blast barrier. Four Axion Construction contractors look nervous as hell.
They should be. One millimeter means the difference between a clean breach and bringing down the whole structure.
“Questions?” My query comes out clipped, minimal.
“Shouldn’t we use more explosives for a beam this size?” Collins, Axion’s lead engineer, steps forward. His cologne is too strong for close quarters, a chemical sweetness mixed with nervous sweat.
“More explosives equal less control.” I connect the detonator wire, feeling the familiar snap of the coupling. “Less predictability. Larger collateral damage radius. Your company’s paying Cerberus to teach you precision, not brute force.”
Brass smirks from his position by the door. He’s seen this scenario before—corporate types questioning my methods until they witness the results.
“Time?” I ask without looking up.
“Three minutes.” Brass’s voice cuts through the ambient noise without effort.
Calculations run automatically in my head. Load capacity. Explosive force. Blast radius. Numbers never lie. Never betray. Never demand more than precision.
“Perimeter?”
“Clear,” Halo confirms from overwatch. “Fifteen seconds to optimal window.”
The floor vibrates slightly—Whisper moving into position on the catwalk above. No need to check. Each Cerberus team member will be exactly where they’re supposed to be. We operate on trust. The only trust that matters—trust earned through blood, verified through action.
Not the kind of trust that gets people killed.
“Everyone behind the barrier,” I order, measuring the distance. Eighteen feet to minimum safe position.
I move back twenty-two feet. Always add a margin for error when civilian lives are involved.
The Axion team scrambles to comply, their movements sloppy compared to my team’s fluid efficiency. Brass slides in beside me, shoulder bumping mine in silent camaraderie.
“You good?”
I give a minimal nod. My teammates have learned to read volumes in my silence. Brass has been with me long enough toknow when to push and when to let it go. Today isn’t a pushing day.
“Detonation in five, four, three …”
The sound comes first. Not the explosion itself, but the microsecond before—that distinctive compression of air molecules as the C4 ignites. Then the controlled boom, precisely calibrated to take out only the target support without compromising the surrounding structure.
Heat washes over the barrier. Dust billows. Concrete particles coat my tongue—gritty, alkaline, mixed with the metallic tang of explosive residue.
And suddenly I’m not in Seattle anymore.
I’m in Syria. Three years ago. Different dust, different heat, but the same taste of explosive residue coating my throat.
“Trust me, Jackson. Intel’s solid. Building’s clear.”
Colonel Mitchell’s voice crackles through my earpiece, confident and reassuring. My team moves on his word—Kowalski first through the door, then Vega, then Brennan. I’m fourth, the demolitions kit heavy on my back.
“Structural charge here,”I mark the wall with chalk.“Sixty seconds to breach the compound next door.”
“Confirmed hostile location?”Kowalski asks, always careful, always checking.
