They went quiet again, a soldier’s quiet—the kind born from shared understanding.Kael pressed the comm device into his ear, the almost invisible piece sitting comfortably behind the cartilage.Pathfinder tech.Hogan had called it “a gift with range that could whisper through a hurricane.”
Kael tapped the mic once.“Black Tide, call signs active, sound check.”
****
When they went intoa live situation, they went call signs active, they became their team, and always used their call signs.It was a matter of safety for sure, but it also helped them to separate who they were at war from who they were at home.
“Copy,” Niko “Reef” said.
“Loud and clear,” Tane “Mano” added.
“Still breathing,” Keanu “Torch” muttered.
“Online,” Luca “Breaker” confirmed.
Kael “Surge” smiled faintly.“Good.Let’s get it done.”
They rolled out close to midnight, three dark SUVs cutting silently through Newark’s industrial backroads.The docks glittered in the distance like a city within a city, cranes and lights shifting under a low haze.The night smelled of salt, tar, and gasoline.A storm front was building somewhere over the water, pressure heavy in the air.
Surge drove the lead vehicle, Reef navigating beside him.Mano followed in the second SUV, Breaker and his tech kit in the back.Torch rode shotgun in the third, tapping his knives together like a drummer before battle.
“You know,” Reef said, his voice quiet, “you ever think we’ve done this too many times?That we’re just waiting for the one that goes sideways?”
Surge’s hands tightened on the wheel.“Every time.”
Reef huffed.“Good.Thought I was getting sentimental.”
Surge gave him a side glance.“That’d be a first.”
They pulled into a dark lane behind the warehouses and killed the engines.The team disembarked in silence, splitting off with well-rehearsed precision.The port was awake but quiet—workers moving like ghosts under halogen lights.Surge crouched by the edge of a shipping container and scanned the perimeter through his scope.The hum of cranes carried faintly over the water.
“Mano in position,” came the whisper through comms.“I have the overwatch.”
“Breaker has eyes,” followed a soft murmur.“Drones are airborne.Feeds are live.”
“Torch ready,” the point man added.“Waiting on green.”
Reef’s voice steadied over the line.“Truck’s two minutes out.”
Surge’s gut tightened.The air shifted, and for a second, the hair on his arms stood up.He scanned the rooftops, the horizon, the black stretch of water.Nothing.But the feeling didn’t fade.
“Something’s wrong,” he murmured.
“Define wrong,” Reef said softly.
Surge’s voice was a low growl.“Too clean.Same as before.”
“You calling it?”Breaker asked.
Surge hesitated, instinct warring with reason.
Before he could answer, a new voice crackled over the comms—low, deliberate, too controlled to be anything but experienced, altered for sure.
“Black Tide,”it said.“This is Wraith.Target’s in play.You’ve got a window.Take the shot, remove all threats and burn the route.Rescue the kids.Move now.”
Surge froze, blood pounding in his ears.“Wraith?You don’t give my team orders.”
“Then consider it advice,”Wraith said, tone sharp.“Sokolov’s on-site.You wait, you lose him.I’ve been watching him longer than you have.You want to make this count?You do it now.”
