"Crossfire," Axel said.
"Crossfire. They'll be caught between the ridgeline and the cabin. The ones who make it inside are mine and Sean's problem."
"And me," Nolan said from the hallway. He'd been listening. The small backpack was already strapped to his back, the evidence secured. "The back bedroom. Fire extinguisher. I remember."
Sean looked at him. I looked at him.
Kai stepped into the room behind Nolan, medical bag open. "Speaking of which—I've set up a station in the garage. Trauma kit, saline, suture materials. I've also staged gauze and tourniquets at the two fallback positions inside the cabin. Anything worse than a graze, you get the wounded to me." He looked at Sean. "Don't play hero with the field medicine."
"Kai, your faith in my medical skills is touching."
"I've seen your medical skills. That's why I'm here."
By mid-afternoon, the backup team was in position. Tank and Blade had driven the two trucks half a mile south and tucked them behind a cluster of rock formations tall enough to hide the vehicles from any angle. They'd hiked back to the northeast ridge on foot—forty minutes over rough terrain with water, protein bars, rifles, and enough ammunition to hold the high ground for hours. Axel was already there, prone behind the rocks, invisible. Ghost and Tyler had taken the eastern position, Ghost's restless energy finally channeled into the focused stillness of a man waiting for contact. From the cabin, I couldn't see any of them. That was the point.
I spent the remaining hours fortifying. Furniture repositioned as barriers—the couch flipped and braced at the hallway junction, the kitchen table tipped onto its side against the east wall. Both bedroom doors off their hinges. Two rifles positioned at the primary and secondary fallback points. Theheavy bag from the gym dragged inside and laid across the back bedroom window as improvised ballistic padding.
Sean rigged the stove's gas burner for the NVG countermeasure he'd been planning—blue flame to wash out night-vision optics and force the goggles off. He tested every light switch and mapped which rooms could be darkened independently.
At sundown, I killed the exterior lights. Took my position at the front window. Keyed the radio.
"All positions, check in."
"Northeast ridge. Set." Axel's voice, low and steady.
"East ridge. Set." Tyler. Professional. Tight.
"Cabin interior. Set." Sean, from the kitchen. A beat. "And bored."
"Back bedroom. Set." Nolan. No tremor.
I checked the rifle. Checked the sight. Settled in.
They came at 2:14 AM.
Four vehicles—double the two I'd tracked that morning. High beams killed, engines cut at five hundred yards, coasting the last stretch on momentum. The low diesel rumble reached me at four hundred yards through the desert silence. Professional. Not perfect. Perfect would have been on foot.
I counted them through the scope as they dismounted. Sixteen. Body armor, helmets, NVGs, suppressed rifles. Two teams of eight, splitting north and east for a coordinated double breach. Rehearsed. Disciplined. Private military contractors—Holt's budget buying the best killers money could rent.
Sixteen against nine. They thought it was sixteen against three.
I keyed the radio. Whispered. "Contact. Four vehicles. Sixteen hostiles, helmeted and armored. Two teams of eight, north and east approach. Four hundred fifty yards."
"Copy." Axel. Calm as stone.
"Copy." Tyler.
"Copy." Sean. The edge in his voice wasn't fear.
"Nolan. Stay low. Stay quiet."
"Copy."
The northern team advanced first. Eight figures in tactical formation, two columns of four, moving through the scrubland in a crouch. The eastern team circled wide, approaching the kitchen side. Both teams converging on the cabin in a pincer that would have been devastating against three men in a drywall box.
I let them come. Three hundred yards. Two hundred. My finger rested on the radio. The northern team crossed the open ground toward the front of the cabin, fully committed, their backs to the ridge where Axel, Tank, and Blade lay prone behind the rocks with clear sightlines and loaded rifles.
A hundred and fifty yards. I could see the lead operator's helmet through the scope. The NVGs mounted on it, the suppressed barrel of his rifle, the disciplined way he moved. Professional. Trained.
