Jackson checks his gear one last time. He looks at me. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand. “Let’s go.”
“Fuse in position,” Jackson says into the comms. “Rear service entrance.”
“Copy,” Ghost says. “Torque. Light it up.”
A massive flash of blue light splits the sky to the north. The substation blows. A second later, the boom rattles the windows of the SUV.
The streetlights die. The Nexus tower goes dark against the skyline, a black monolith swallowed by the night.
“Power down,” Halo says. “Generators kicking in… Three… Two… One. Cameras are looped. You have a sixty-second window to breach.”
“Go,” Jackson says.
We burst out of the SUV, sprinting across the wet pavement toward the service door. The air smells of ozone and impending rain. My boots slap against the concrete, loud in my own ears, but swallowed by the chaos of the city reacting to the blackout.
Jackson reaches the door first. He raises his leg to kick, but the door swings open from the inside.
Three men spill out. Not security guards. Hard targets. Phoenix operatives in tactical gear, confused by the blackout, but weapons raised.
The lead operative slams into Jackson. They go down in a tangle of limbs and swearing.
The second man swings his rifle toward me.
I freeze.
The third man—huge, a wall of muscle—lunges. He grabs my vest, spinning me around, slamming my back against the brick wall. The wind leaves my lungs in a rush. Cold steel presses against my temple.
“Drop it!” he screams at Jackson. “Drop it or she dies!”
Jackson freezes. He has the first man in a chokehold, his knife poised to sever an artery. He looks up. His eyes lock on the gun pressed to my head.
He releases the man on the ground. Slowly stands. His hands go up, palms open.
“Easy,” Jackson says. His voice is terrifyingly calm. “Let her go.”
“Kick the gun away,” the man holding me commands. “Now!”
Jackson kicks his Glock across the pavement. It skitters into the dark.
“On your knees. Hands behind your head.”
Jackson sinks to his knees. But his eyes never leave the man holding me. They aren’t the eyes of a man surrendering. They are the eyes of a man calculating the trajectory of a kill.
“You’re making a mistake,” Jackson says softly.
“Shut up.” The man tightens his grip on my throat. “Secure him.”
The operative on the ground scrambles up, reaching for zip ties. The second man keeps his rifle trained on Jackson’s chest.
“I’m going to give you one chance,” Jackson says. “Let her go, and you walk away.”
The man holding me laughs. A wet, nervous sound. “I’m holding the gun, asshole. I make the rules.”
“Fine,” Jackson says. “It’s your funeral.”
