She takes a breath, steadying herself. “What do I need to do?”
“Get your data ready. Because when they get here, we’re going to plan a war.”
She nods. She doesn’t ask if they are good. She doesn’t ask if they can win. She just trusts me.
“Okay.” She wipes a smudge of dirt from her cheek. “Let’s burn it down.”
SIXTEEN
Talia
THE PACK
The industrial warehousesits on the edge of the South Side like a rusted iron lung, breathing cold drafts and the smell of decades-old grease. Vargas’s “secondary site” is less a safe house and more a graveyard for Cold War-era tech and structural paranoia.
I sit on a crate of MREs, knees pulled to my chest, watching Jackson.
He paces the concrete floor. Three steps north. Turn. Three steps south. Turn. His energy has shifted. So far, he’s been a shield—a singular force standing between me and death. Now, he vibrates with a different frequency.
Anticipation.
The lone wolf waiting for the pack.
Vargas hunches over a workbench in the corner, soldering something that looks alarmingly like a detonator. “Stop pacing, Fuse. You’re vibrating the floorboards.”
“They’re close.” Jackson checks his watch. “Torque makes good time.”
“Torque flies like he has a death wish.”
“He does.”
A sound outside. Not a siren. Not a car engine.
Thethrum-thrum-thrumof rotors cutting through heavy air.
Jackson stops pacing. “Roof.”
He moves to the freight elevator—a caged beast of a lift—and hits the button. I follow, weapon drawn, though Jackson doesn’t seem worried. His shoulders have dropped an inch. His breathing has deepened.
The elevator rattles upward, chains groaning. We emerge onto the roof just as a black shape blots out the stars.
The helicopter is unlit, a shadow against the Chicago light pollution. It flares hard, nose up, dropping fast toward the reinforced roof deck. The downdraft hits us, whipping my hair across my face, stinging my eyes with grit.
The skids touch down with a metallic screech that sets my teeth on edge.
The side door slides open.
Five men spill out. They move like water—fluid, synchronized, covering angles I hadn’t even identified as threats. I press my back against the elevator housing, gripping my Glock, cataloging them as they deploy.
The first one out has to be the leader. Tall. Imposing. Even in the dark, he radiates a gravitational pull. He scans the perimeter once, effectively owning the space, then strides toward Jackson.
Next, a man with the build of a linebacker but the grace of a dancer. He carries a heavy pack like it’s filled with feathers, his head swiveling, checking the horizon.
A smaller, wiry figure jumps out next, holding a tablet, grinning like he’s at a tailgate party instead of a clandestine insertion. He taps the screen, seemingly bored by the tactical insertion.
The pilot kills the rotors and leaps from the cockpit, landing with a reckless bounce. He stretches, cracking his neck.
I count four.
