I was typing serial numbers as fast as Irish read them. DX-4474-R, 4475, 4476. Each one a green confirmation. Each one another nail in Raymond Holt's coffin. My hands were steady on the keys. The data was clean. The pattern was perfect.
02:17.
"Alpha, center of the warehouse floor. Something's wrong." Declan's voice changed. Barely perceptible, a fractional drop in register, but I'd spent weeks learning the frequencies of that voice and the shift hit me like a hand on my chest. "It's too open. No interior guards. No movement."
"Dec—" Tank's voice, cut short.
The floodlight was a sound before it was a word. A heavy mechanical thunk, an industrial switch being thrown, and then Declan's channel erupted into a wall of noise. Automatic gunfire, staccato and deafening, the rounds hitting metal and concrete in a cascade that turned the speaker into a roar of distortion. Declan's voice, flat, immediate, cutting through: "Contact! Elevated positions, catwalk at two o'clock, office windows at ten, barricade at twelve! Cover! Find cover!"
I couldn't breathe.
"Alpha under fire!" Tank's voice, shouting over the gunfire. "Three positions, at least six shooters. They were inside the whole time."
Tyler's hand closed on my arm. His fingers pressed hard enough to bruise. His face had gone tight, the professional mask cracking along a fault line I recognized because I felt the same one running through my chest. Tank was in that warehouse. Tank was under fire. And Tyler was here, in a van, a mile away, listening.
"He's okay." I didn't know if it was true. I said it anyway.
Tyler didn't answer. His jaw worked. His eyes locked on the speaker.
On Bravo, simultaneously: Irish's channel exploded. A different sound, closer, the sharp crack of pistol fire mixed with the heavier report of rifles. Irish's voice, strained, shouting over it: "Contact at the docks! They're coming out of the containers! Blade, left side, left side!"
"I see them!" Blade, followed by three rapid shots.
"Axel, cut them off at the bay door!"
Gunfire. A sound like a body hitting metal. Someone grunting in pain. Not Irish. Not Irish's voice. I gripped the laptop and my knuckles went white.
"Bravo, we're pinned at the east containers." Irish, breathing hard. "Six hostiles, maybe seven. They were inside the shipping containers. Waiting."
"Same here," Declan said on Alpha, and the calm in his voice was terrifying because it meant the situation was bad enough to require full control. "Kill box. They pulled the exterior guards inside. Set the whole warehouse as an ambush. We're behind a pallet stack, center floor. Tank's returning fire on the catwalk. Ghost is working the right flank."
The database still glowed on my screen. Green confirmations. Meaningless now.
"Two down on the catwalk!" Ghost's voice. Young, electric. "Third position still active, office windows."
Declan: "Tank, suppressive fire on the office. I'm moving to flank."
A burst of automatic fire from Tank's weapon, sustained, the deep rhythmic hammering of a man laying down cover. Then Declan's channel picked up movement, the sound of boots and harsh breathing and fabric scraping against concrete as he moved fast through the warehouse.
On Bravo: "Blade, on your six!" Irish. A crash. Close-quarters. The wet sound of something heavy connecting with bone. Then Irish, panting: "He's down. Wrench. Blade, status?"
"Cut on my arm. I'm good. Two more behind the forklift."
"I see them."
Three shots. A shout in a language that wasn't English. Then Irish: "One down. Last one's running for the south door."
"Let him run," Axel said. "Secure the bay."
I was shaking. My whole body, a fine continuous tremor that started in my hands and radiated through my arms, my shoulders, my jaw. The numbers on my screen blurred and refocused and blurred again. Tyler's hand was still on my arm. He hadn't let go.
On Alpha, Declan: "Flanking the office position. Ghost, keep them pinned."
Ghost fired. Three controlled bursts.
Declan's channel went to static.
Not the static of a man pausing between transmissions. A hard, percussive burst of white noise that obliterated every other sound, followed by a low rumble that shook the speaker grille, followed by silence. Total, impenetrable silence.
