“Alright,” Charles says, standing and checking his weapon. “Let’s move. I want this clean and quiet if possible. Information first, bodies second.”
We gear up. Comms check. Weapons check. Entry positions.
The textile mill looms ahead, windows like dead eyes watching our approach.
Something feels wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, instinct screaming that this is off, that we’re walking into something worse than we planned for.
But we need information. We need to know if Ryan’s network is contained or if there are more threats we haven’t identified yet.
We need to protect Parker and the boys.
So we move forward.
The entry is smooth. Too smooth.
First floor is clear. No resistance. No sounds except our careful footsteps and the creak of old floorboards.
“Second floor,” Silas murmurs into his comm. “Three hostiles confirmed.”
We move up the stairs, weapons raised, every sense on high alert.
The second floor opens into what used to be the main production floor. Massive space, old textile equipment still scattered around like rusted skeletons. Support columns every twenty feet. Shadows everywhere.
And movement.
Not three hostiles.
Eight.
Maybe more.
“Fuck,” Cal breathes.
They open fire.
The world explodes into chaos and noise and violence.
I dive behind a support column as bullets tear through the space I just occupied. Return fire, quick controlled bursts,forcing the shooters to take cover. Beside me, Silas is already moving, flanking left with the kind of fluid grace that makes him terrifying in combat.
Cal’s on the right, his movements sharp and efficient. Charles has our six, his weapon tracking threats with the precision of someone who’s been doing this for thirty years.
“How many?” Charles barks into the comm.
“At least eight,” I respond, counting muzzle flashes. “Could be more in the back rooms.”
A bullet hits the column six inches from my head, spraying concrete dust. I return fire, catch one of the shooters in the shoulder. He goes down but someone else immediately takes his position.
These aren’t amateurs. These are trained operatives with good positioning and better tactics.
“They were expecting us,” Silas growls over the comm. “This is a fucking ambush.”
He’s right. The positioning is too good, the response too coordinated. Someone told them we were coming.
Or they set this up knowing we’d follow Diego’s intel.
“Fall back!” Charles orders. “Regroup at the stairwell!”
We move as a unit, covering each other, returning fire to keep the hostiles pinned. Make it to the stairwell just as something explodes behind us. Not a grenade, thank fuck, but close. Flash-bang maybe, or a breaching charge.
