Where is?—
Movement in the periphery. A shadow detaches itself from the AC unit near the roof access. I gasp, raising my Glock.
“Easy,” Jackson says, his hand covering mine, lowering the barrel. “That’s Whisper.”
I stare. I never saw him exit the bird. He simply materialized in the optimal overwatch position.
The team converges. No salutes. No formal greetings. Just a series of forearm clasps and nods that convey volumes of history.
“You look like hell, Fuse,” the pilot says, clapping Jackson on the non-injured shoulder. He eyes the blood-soaked bandage. “What’d you do, try to catch a round with your teeth?”
“Bullet extraction,” Jackson says. “Field conditions.”
“Sloppy.”
“Effective.”
The leader steps forward. The group falls silent. His gaze flicks to me—analyzing, assessing, cataloging. I feel like I’m being scanned by an X-ray machine, but there’s no hostility in it. Just calculation.
“Let’s get inside,” he says. His voice is deep, resonant. “We’re exposed.”
We descend into the warehouse. The dynamic in the room shifts instantly. It shrinks. Six large, dangerous men fill the space with kinetic energy. They start unpacking gear before anyone gives an order—laptops, weapons cases, tactical maps. It’s a hive mind. Efficient. Terrifying.
Jackson guides me toward the leader. “Talia, this is Mason Blackwood. Call sign Ghost.”
Ghost extends a hand. He doesn’t treat me like a package or a liability. He treats me like a variable he needs to solve. “Ms. Singh. Apologies for the dramatic entrance. Fuse tells us you’ve had a rough few days.”
“That’s an understatement,” I say, taking his hand. His grip is dry, firm.
“This is Ryan Ellis,” Jackson continues, pointing to the linebacker. “Brass. He handles intel and comms.”
Brass nods, already setting up a satellite link on a portable table. “Ma’am.”
“Diego Martinez. Halo.” Jackson points to the wiry one with the tablet.
Halo waves without looking up from his screen. “Hi. Don’t touch my stuff.”
“Cooper Hayes. Whisper.” Jackson gestures to the shadow in the corner, who has already started disassembling a long-range rifle. Whisper just blinks.
“And Levi Durant. Torque.”
The pilot grins, spinning a set of keys on his finger. “The one who gets us out of trouble when Fuse blows something up.”
“Welcome to the circus,” Ghost says. He turns to the workbench. “And you must be Vargas.”
Vargas stands by his workbench, leaning on his cane, watching the invasion of his sanctuary with a mixture of annoyance and respect. “You brought a lot of noise to my quiet neighborhood, Blackwood.”
“We brought a solution.” Ghost gestures to the table. “Let’s brief the op.”
Halo drifts toward Vargas’s tech setup. He picks up the Root Seed drive and turns the titanium brick over in his hands. “Proprietary port. High-voltage capacitors. Vacuum tube shielding? This is a dinosaur.”
“It’s a bullet,” Vargas growls, snatching it back. “For a digital brain. It works because it’s not connected to your cloud-based garbage.”
Halo raises an eyebrow, looking at the soldering work. “Analog bridge to bypass the digital handshake. That’s—actuallybrilliant.” He looks at Vargas with new respect. “You’re the hardware architect.”
“I built the cage,” Vargas says. “You’re the kid who writes the ghosts.”
“Game recognizes game,” Torque mutters, opening a crate of MREs. “Great. Now there’s two of them.”
