“Functional,” I grit out. The lie tastes like blood.
“Liar.” He jerks me forward, taking my weight. “Torque’s at the dock. Sixty-second window before the cavalry gets reinforced.”
We spill out into the corridor.
The air here is warmer. Richer. I suck it in greedily, choking as my lungs try to reboot. It burns like fire, but it clears the gray static from my vision.
I cough so hard my ribs scream, doubling over.
“Weapon,” I croak.
Brass doesn’t break stride. He slaps my Glock into my palm. “One in the chamber. Mags full. Don’t miss.”
Ghost takes point, his carbine raised, moving with a fluid lethality. “Move out. Standard diamond formation.”
We run.
The corridor stutters between light and dark. The main power is gone. Emergency strobes flicker like a dying heartbeat, painting the walls in flashes of red and black. Shadows twist and stretch, looking like enemies in the gaps between the light.
My boots slap the concrete, each stride jarring my left arm until white-hot pain spikes up to my shoulder. The wound tears wider with every movement, warm blood sliding in a slow, relentless trail down my ribs, soaking into the waistband of my pants. The Glock threatens to slip in my grip, slick with sweat and the smear of my own blood.
“Contact front.” Ghost fires.
The muzzle flash bleaches the world white.
Three Phoenix operatives choke the junction ahead. They are silhouettes in the strobe light, bulky with armor. Their Night Vision Goggles glow like hungry green eyes in the dark. They have the advantage. They can see us. We are just shapes in the gloom.
Rounds snap past us, cracking the air. Sparks shower from the conduit on the wall.
“Blind them,” I snap.
Brass yanks a flashbang from his vest, pulls the pin, and rolls it forward.
“Frag out.”
BANG.
A concussive pop detonates inside my skull. The hallway turns pure white for a second. Optics fry, and men shout in pain.
We surge through the breach.
Shapes blur in the fog. Not people—targets. I fire twice. Center mass. My trigger finger moves on muscle memory. The first shape collapses.
Ghost takes the second with a controlled burst. Brass puts the third into the wall with a shoulder check. He sets Talia down and aims point-blank.
We step over the bodies. I don’t look at faces. I look for threats.
My left arm is dead weight. A useless pendulum. But my right arm is rock steady.
Talia is back on her feet, at my flank. I glance at her. She isn’t stumbling. She isn’t crying. She’s running. Her weapon is up, a two-handed grip, scanning the rear angles. Her movements are crisp, mimicking the team.
Partners.
“Stairwell is burned,”Whisper’s voice murmurs over comms—smooth, clinical, detached from the violence.“Heavy gunner on the landing. No viable push. You’ll get shredded in the fatal funnel.”
“Loading dock,” I reply, gasping for air. “Direct route. Through the warehouse.”
“That puts us in the open,” Brass grunts, swapping mags mid-stride. “We lose cover.”
