It looks like a mile away.
“Contact rear,” Brass snaps.
The door behind us detonates inward, a spray of splintered metal. A kill squad pours through—armored, disciplined, the kind of unit that doesn’t panic and doesn’t miss.
Gunfire erupts, a brutal, choking roar.
Before Ghost can issue the order, Halo appears in the back of the van, one knee down on the metal floor, rifle braced against his shoulder. His body is terrifyingly still in the chaos, the kind of stillness that comes from instinct, not training.
He fires.
One round—clean, sharp.
A visor cracks. A head snaps sideways. A body drops.
Halo shifts by millimeters, tracking another operator weaving for position.
Another shot. Another collapse.
Surgical. Unhurried. Absolute.
A third kill squad member breaks off to flank?—
Halo cuts him down mid-stride, a perfect shot sliding through the gap in his side armor.
No wasted movement.
No panic.
He’s not firing a rifle—he’s executing a checklist.
And then he calls it, voice calm as a surgeon, “Path is open. Move.”
That’s when Ghost bellows, “Go!” emptying his magazine to keep any remaining heads down. “To the van. Everyone move. Now!”
We break cover.
Fifty feet of open concrete. Fifty feet of pure exposure.
Bullets hiss past, chewing up the floor, gritty chips stinging my face. I shove Talia forward, keeping myself between her and the kill squad.
“Run,” I snarl. “Don’t look back.”
Halo pivots for another shot, precision incarnate.
He’s not a tech guy.
He’s not backup.
He’s the invisible hand clearing the path—the reason any of us are still alive to run at all.
The real meaning of his call sign.
Halo.
Talia sprints for the van. A streak of motion and determination. Halo lowers his weapon and reaches for her. She dives inside, scrambling over the wheel well.
I’m three steps behind her.
