I aimed at the door. Blinked the flash blindness away. The shapes were resolving, blurred at the edges but recognizable.Axel was up behind the table, the captured weapon shouldered, Kai beside him with his pistol raised, both of them operating on the same training I was: the grenades were the preamble, the breach was the sentence.
The shadows came through fast.
Two at once, rifles sweeping, muzzles blazing before they'd cleared the threshold. Erratic bursts, spraying the room without fixed targets, the desperation of men breaching into a space they didn't know against defenders they couldn't see. Rounds punched into the overturned tables, into the walls, into the ceiling.
I fired twice. The first round caught the lead mercenary in the neck, above the Kevlar collar. He spun sideways. The second caught the man behind him in the knee. The kneecap shattered and he collapsed forward, screaming, his rifle discharging into the floor.
Blade had tumbled from his position at the doorframe, the grenade's effects visible in the way he moved, less fluid than usual, his coordination lagging. But the Desert Eagle came up and he fired three times from a crouch. The heavy .50-caliber rounds punched through a mercenary's vest at center mass, the stopping power throwing the body backward through the doorway.
More coming through. Three at once now, learning, spreading as they entered, seeking cover behind the furniture that had been shoved against the walls. Two dove behind the serving counter. A third ran for the hallway.
Tank emerged from the corridor entrance like a wall with a gun. Point-blank range. One shot. The mercenary's face disappeared. Tank stepped over the body and fired twice more down the corridor, his massive frame filling the hallway, blocking any advance from that direction.
Ghost was up behind the concrete pillar, his rifle cracking in controlled pairs. Axel engaging from behind the table, Kai beside him, shots precise, economical, the tactical pen now tucked into his vest, both hands on the gun. Tyler behind Tank, covering the secondary corridor.
Sean was at the wall beside me, pistol up, firing toward the doorway. Each shot placed. The jokes were gone. The grin was gone. What remained was the focused intensity of a man defending the people behind him, and behind him was Nolan, pressed low behind the table, his hands over his ears, his eyes wide and tracking.
The breach failed. The last mercenaries in the entrance hall fell or retreated, dragging wounded through the doorway, leaving blood trails on the concrete. The doorway held. The kill box worked.
But from the wings, the shooting continued. East building. West building. The mercenaries who'd stayed outside the gate were hitting the secondary structures, trying to flank, to find a way in that didn't lead through the main entrance and its wall of defenders.
Axel was on his feet. Blood on his forearm from a ricochet, ignored. "Ghost! Blade! Tank, Tyler! West wing! Clear it!"
Ghost moved first, rifle up, the restless energy channeled into a lethal focus. Blade behind him, Desert Eagle in one hand, knife in the other. Tank and Tyler falling in behind, moving in the coordinated formation that months of partnership had built between them.
"Declan! Irish! Kai! On me! East wing!" Axel's voice carried the authority of a vice president whose compound was under siege and who intended to end the siege personally.
"Nolan stays between us." Sean's voice. Hard. The mission carved into his expression.
I nodded. Nolan was getting to his feet behind the table, staggered, his balance off, blinking against the residual flash. But his jaw was set and his eyes were tracking. I gripped his arm, steadied him. Put him between Sean and me. Axel and Kai moved ahead.
The corridor to the east wing was narrow, concrete-walled, lit by flickering fluorescents that the gunfire had destabilized. The sounds from the east building filtered through the walls: gunshots, shouts, the crash of furniture, the particular acoustic signature of close-quarters combat in enclosed spaces.
A mercenary appeared at the T-junction ahead. Axel dropped him with two rounds before the hostile's rifle cleared the corner, the body folding sideways into the wall. Kai stepped over him without breaking stride.
Another in the side corridor. This one saw us. His rifle swung up. I fired before his barrel reached horizontal, the round catching him in the shoulder, spinning him. Kai's follow-up shot took him center mass.
"Clear left," Axel called. "Kitchen access is through the next corridor. Dec, Irish, take the kitchen. Kai and I have the workshop."
"Copy." I tapped Sean's shoulder. He nodded. Nolan stayed between us.
The kitchen was through a fire door at the end of the corridor. I could hear it through the walls. Gunfire, close, the sharp reports of pistols mixed with the deeper bark of a rifle. Shouts in English. Shouts in a language I recognized as Bulgarian.
I kicked the fire door open.
The kitchen was a warzone. The industrial stove overturned, pots scattered across the tile floor, the walk-in refrigerator's door punctured with bullet holes. Two Phoenix members were behind the stainless steel prep counter, one shooting, one downand clutching his shoulder. Three mercenaries held positions behind the overturned stove and a stack of supply crates.
We came in from behind the mercenaries' positions. The advantage lasted two seconds. I dropped the first with a headshot before he registered our entry. Sean fired three times, catching the second in the throat as he turned, the arterial spray painting the supply crates behind him. The third spun toward us and Sean's follow-up caught him between the eyes. He dropped without a sound.
Then the door at the far end of the kitchen flew off its hinges. A boot had done that. A single, devastating kick that tore the frame apart and sent the metal door spinning across the tile.
Kolev filled the gap. Limping. His right foot favoring, the gait uneven from where Sean's stomp had done its damage. His tactical vest was torn, his face streaked with dust and sweat. And an automatic rifle that he raised and fired in a sustained burst that raked across the kitchen in a horizontal arc.
"DOWN!" I shoved Nolan behind the prep counter. Sean and I dove sideways as the rounds chewed through the stainless steel, sparks flying, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.
"Found you!" Kolev's voice was a roar, the thick accent distorted by fury. "The treasurer! The one who thinks he's funny!" Another burst. The prep counter rang like a bell, dents punching through the metal. "I'm going to kill you and make your friends watch!"
Sean and I shot back from either side of the counter. My rounds hit the doorframe. His hit the wall beside Kolev's head. Kolev didn't flinch. He fired again, the burst shorter, more controlled, the rounds walking across the counter toward Nolan's position.
