"Rules of engagement?"
"Get her out alive. Anyone trying to stop you is hostile." He pauses. "Guardian HRS will back whatever decisions you make in the field."
Translation:Go weapons free preferred. Hot otherwise. We'll handle the cleanup.
I grab my go-bag, already packed with medical supplies, extra magazines, and breach charges. "Pilot ready?"
"Ariel’s spinning up now."
"Who else is joining me?"
"Flint took a bullet two weeks ago in Los Angeles, and Frost is still on medical leave. You're solo on this."
Solo's fine. Solo means I don't have to watch anyone else die on my watch.
The helicopter ride passes in mission prep—studying building schematics on my tablet, memorizing the neighborhood layout, and planning primary and contingency extraction routes.
Savannah Cross's apartment is on the eighth floor of a twelve-story building, with two stairwells, one main elevator, and one service elevator. Too many ways for hostiles to come at her, not enough ways to get her out clean.
San Francisco spreads below us in a carpet of lights and shadows. Ariel Black’s voice crackles through my headset. "Two minutes to insertion point."
I clip onto the fast rope. "Put me on a nearby building, southeast corner. I'll make my approach."
"Copy. Southeast corner, coming up."
The skid touches down on a rooftop four buildings from the target. I drop into the darkness, and Ariel lifts away immediately. The night air carries fog and salt from the Bay, along with something else—the metallic scent of blood drifting from an open window.
I move across rooftops, using maintenance walkways and construction scaffolding to close the distance.
The fourth building has a fifteen-foot gap—too far to jump. I pull out my tactical grappling hook, the carbon fiber line whisper-quiet as it flies across the void. It catches on an HVAC unit, and I test it with two sharp tugs before committing my weight.
Hand over hand across the gap, San Francisco spread like broken glass and promises below me.
A couple argues in a nearby apartment below me, their voices carrying through an open window—normal life, oblivious to the violence about to erupt four buildings over.
The scaffolding on the next building is fresh, still smells of cut wood and industrial paint. Construction permits flutter in the wind, dated last week.
I use the exterior elevator shaft and climb the safety cage. My shoulder holster catches on a protruding bolt, and I have to contort to free myself without losing purchase.
Every second counts, but rushing means mistakes, and mistakes mean Savannah Cross dies.
The target building comes into view, and my instincts scream. Four black SUVs are arranged around the entrance, in the wrong position for standard FBI protocol.
The agents visible are wearing FBI windbreakers, but their weapons are wrong—MP7s instead of standard-issue MP5s. Their positioning is amateur, clustered instead of maintaining overlapping fields of fire.
I count twelve hostiles in total—four at the main entrance, two at the service entry, two more pretending to be homeless but with the telltale bulge of concealed weapons and tactical boots.
The rooftop has a sniper, poorly concealed behind an AC unit. His scope glints in the streetlight—rookie mistake.
These aren't FBI.
They're mercenaries playing dress-up, which means someone with deep pockets wants Savannah Cross dead badly enough to fund a private army.
I swing down to a seventh-floor balcony on the adjacent building, using my spotting scope to check Savannah's windows.
Curtains are drawn, but there's flickering light—muzzle flashes.
The pattern is wrong for a one-sided execution. Three-round bursts, then singles, then silence, then more fire from a different position. She's moving, fighting back.
