Breakneck went perfectly still, every muscle in his body coiling tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A thin, cruel smile touched Carver’s lips. “A little piece of ass on the side doesn’t hurt,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial leer, “and the sarge is brilliant to boot. She deserves that promotion.” The way he said her rank was a deliberate insult, stripping it of all its weight.
“I would suggest,” Breakneck said, his voice a low, cold blade of steel, “that whenever you talk about Staff Sergeant Brown, your words are more respectful, or I’ll shove them down your throat.”
Iceman, who had been staring out the window, slowly turned his head. A smirk touched his mouth, and he gave a short, sharp nod of agreement, as if he was more than willing to help drive that point home.
“Ooh, the kid’s feisty, huh, Jones?” Carver chuckled, a low, rumbling sound with no humor. He held Breakneck’s piercing look in the mirror, his own eyes shuttered, like a door closing on a dark room. He was enjoying this, savoring the reaction he’d provoked. “I shouldn’t piss off a sniper,” he added, almost amused, as if he were discussing the weather.
The words landed like Carver and Jones shared some kind of inside joke about him. A faint hitch tightened his gut, the kind that usually came before things went sideways. Carver and Jones had always moved as one, and they hadn’t always been straight about it. Going around Ice hadn’t been accidental. Maybe it was a good thing they were retiring.
The SUV pulled away from the remnants of the lumber mill, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Breakneck barely saw it. His mind was miles away, back in that small conference room with Blair. He hated this. Their contacts were now all about logistics and schedules. All he wanted was to figure out some kind of plan, a way they could see each other while they untangled the impossible knot of their lives. He was eager to get back, to just be in the same room with her again, even if all they did was talk.
The landscape outside the window began to shift. The dense, pine-covered mountains of the Interior gave way to rolling hills dotted with gnarled, wind-swept trees. The air grew thicker, saltier. They were heading west.
“Where is this third site?” Iceman asked, his voice flat.
“Place a ways out on the coast,” Carver said, his eyes on the road. “The flunky was real specific. Said it was primo.”
The word hung in the air, sounding very promising. Breakneck tuned him out, his thoughts turning back to Blair. What would he even say? Hey, I know you're being offered the job of a lifetime you so completely deserve, but can you figure out how to fit me into your new schedule? Maybe it was for the better. Maybe she deserved to take this job away from him. His track record with women was dismal, and his relationships were nonexistent. How was he going to make some long-distance relationship with her mean something when they were miles apart?
Iceman activated his mic, his movements economical and deliberate. “TOC, this is Iceman.”
The response was immediate, Blair’s voice a calm, professional lifeline in the stuffy car. “Ice, we read you. Sit rep?”
“Be advised,” Iceman said, his tone all business. “First two sites were bogus. I repeat, the first two sites were bogus. We are en route to the third location somewhere on the coast. Will report once on site. How copy?”
“Good copy,” Blair’s voice came back, steady and clear. “Understood on first two sites. Proceed with caution. Standing by.”
Iceman released his radio. The silence in the car that followed was heavy. Breakneck stared out at the rugged coastline that was now visible in the distance, the smell of the ocean growing stronger with every mile. The time was rushing away from him too fast. He had never expected to find the one person he couldn’t live without on this op when his head had been in the worst shape of his life. Now, their future was hazy and indistinct, and he wanted to touch her again, to make it real, worrying that it might just feel as if it was slipping out of his hands.
The air in the cab grew thick with the smell of salt and brine. The rugged coastline was no longer a distant line on the horizon, but was right outside the window, a jagged edge of dark rock against a churning, gray sea. They passed a weathered sign, bleached by sun and salt, that read: EDERLY - POP. 212. It was a ghost town waiting for them.
Ahead, it rose from the rocky shore like a skeleton. A massive, multi-story structure of rusted corrugated iron and weathered wood, built on thick creosote pilings over the water. A derelict salmon cannery. It was the perfect place to hide something, or someone.
“Recon,” Iceman said, his voice a low command. He glanced at Breakneck, the order passing between them. Breakneck’s hand was already moving to the door handle. “Break?—”
He didn’t even look back from the passenger seat. “Jones can do it,” Carver said, his voice smooth and cutting. “He’s a ghost. Sit tight. I have a feeling about this place.”
The casual dismissal hung in the air, a blatant power play. Iceman’s jaw tightened, but he gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod. He was letting them play their hand, but Breakneck could feel the predator in him coiling tighter.
Jones slipped out of the SUV, moving with a fluid grace that was almost silent. He melted into the shadows of the cannery, a wraith disappearing into the rust and decay. The seconds stretched into a minute, then two. The only sounds were the wind whistling through the building's skeletal frame and the gentle slap of waves against the pilings below.
Then, Jones’s voice crackled over the radio, “All clear, guys. The place is empty. You can bring in the vehicle, Damon.”
A triumphant smirk touched Carver’s lips. He shifted the SUV into drive. “See? Told you.” He looked at Iceman in the rearview mirror, his eyes full of condescending victory. “Let’s go get our cherry.”
The SUV crunched to a halt in what was once the main shipping and receiving area of the cannery. The ground was a mix of cracked concrete and gravel, stained dark with decades of fish oil and salt. The central processing floor was a cavernous, echoing space, dominated by the rusting hulks of massive conveyor belts and sorting machinery that clawed at the high, grimy windows. The air was cold and heavy, thick with the smell of the sea and metallic decay. The only light came from those grimy windows and gaping holes in the corrugated-iron roof, casting long, distorted shadows that moved with the wind outside.
The three of them, Carver, Iceman, and Breakneck, got out. Breakneck’s gaze constantly moved, scanning the shadows, the catwalks high above, the dark corners of the vast room. Jones materialized seemingly out of nowhere. He moved like a… warrior, and the look on his face, and in his eyes, told him that maybe he wasn’t as easy-going as Breakneck had thought. The fact that he could get that close without making a sound was impressive and unsettling.
Jones moved to the back of the SUV, popping the tailgate. He pulled out their weapons, unclipping Breakneck’s sniper rifle and tossing it to him. “Time to find your little nest.”
Breakneck caught the rifle, the familiar weight a cold comfort. Before he could even process the order, Iceman’s voice cut through the air, sharp as broken glass.
“No nest until we know this is legit,” he said, his gaze fixed on Carver. “We move together. We clear this floor first. Then you can go play in the jungle gym.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Carver’s face, but he masked it with a shrug. “Your show, Master Chief.”
