Without breaking stride, Breakneck grabbed the two remaining, fist-sized cogs from his pocket. In a simultaneous, two-handed throw, he hurled them down at Carver.
One cog slammed into a metal I-beam next to Carver’s head with a deafening ping, showering him in rust and sparks. The other one glanced off Carver’s shoulder with a solid, meaty impact that made him roar in pain and surprise. He instinctively turned toward the new threat, his attention diverted from Iceman for the crucial seconds Breakneck needed.
He saw the diagonal conveyor belt that ran down to the main floor. He leaped onto it, sliding down the metal chute like a fireman on a pole, his boots controlling his speed. The belt ended twenty feet above the floor. He tucked and rolled off the end, landing in a shower of sparks on the concrete floor.
He slammed directly into Carver, who was thrown backward with a surprised grunt. The impact sent him crashing into a rusted metal control panel. The jammer, clutched in his hand, popped free and skittered across the concrete.
Breakneck was on it in a flash. He brought his boot down, a sharp, vicious stamp. The device shattered with a satisfying crunch of plastic and electronics, smashing it beyond repair.
Carver got to his feet, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He raised his rifle, but Breakneck was already on him. He still had one cog left. He held it in his offhand like a set of brass knuckles, its sharp, rusted edges a brutal extension of his own fist.
He came in low and fast. Carver swung the rifle like a club, but Breakneck parried it with the cog, the screech of metal-on-metal deafening. The sharp edges shredded Carver’s forearm, forcing him to drop the weapon with a howl. Breakneck used the opening, his knife flashing in, a vicious slash across Carver’s chest. He used the cog to block, to parry, to shred, creating openings for his knife, turning Carver’s own arrogance against him in a terrifyingly effective display of improvised violence.
With the knife embedded in Carver's gut, Breakneck leaned in, his voice a low, venomous whisper. "Too bad you're not a better shot, you fucker."
He jerked the knife up in one, vicious, final motion. Carver’s eyes went wide with a shock that was instantly replaced by a hollow, vacant emptiness. He made a wet, gurgling sound as Breakneck let him fall, collapsing into his own spreading pool of blood and viscera.
The thrum of the helicopter's rotors was a relentless, physical assault, a deafening heartbeat that vibrated through the floor plates and up into Blair’s bones. For thirty minutes, they had been scanning a desolate stretch of coastline, the world below a monotonous tapestry of gray rock, churning sea, and dense, unforgiving forest. Every shadow, every abandoned building, was a potential horror story.
She stared out the open door, the wind whipping tears from the corners of her eyes. Her mind was a battlefield. Every rational, tactical part of her was running search grids, coordinating with Ayla, who was back in TOC, frantically cross-referencing old satellite imagery with the vague "coastal" location from Iceman's last sit rep. But underneath that cold professionalism was a raw, terrorizing panic.
Breakneck. Kelly. A beautiful, damaged, courageous man who had seen her, truly seen her, and hadn't run. He was the man whose quiet strength and raw vulnerability had remade a piece of her soul she hadn't even known was broken. If anything happened to him, a part of her would die. She knew it with a certainty that scared her down to her bones.
She glanced around the cabin. Preacher, GQ, Hazard, Kodiak, Skull with Bones’s head in his lap, and Boomer all looked like they were going to explode, filling the space with big, hard bodies. Their faces, usually set with a confident, warrior calm, were now etched with a grim determination she had never seen.
Ayla’s voice, strained but focused, came over the headset. “Blair, I’m narrowing it down. Three possible defunct industrial sites in the target area. A mine, a mill, and…an old salmon cannery. Sending coordinates now.”
Blair nodded, her throat too tight to speak. They were close. They had to be.
Her thoughts were a tangled mess of what-ifs and prayers when the sound exploded into her headset, so loud and violent it made her jump. A sharp burst of static, followed by the unmistakable, brutal sounds of a close-quarters fight, grunts, the clang of metal, and a pained, guttural roar.
Then his voice, broken and anguished, cut through the chaos. “Ice… don’t… do this…”
They could all hear it in the background, the wet, tearing sound of a package being ripped open. A medical kit.
“Hang on,” Breakneck’s voice was a raw, desperate plea. “Please… please…”
Blair’s heart seized. “Breakneck!” she yelled into her mic, her voice tight with anguish. There was no answer. It was like he couldn’t hear her. His world had shrunk to the man bleeding out on the floor in front of him.
“Break!” Kodiak’s voice boomed over the comms, cutting through the tension in the helicopter. He held up a hand, a silent command for everyone to hold their positions. “What’s the situation! Talk to us, brother! Where are you?”
There was a ragged gasp, then his voice, broken and lost, came over the comm. “He’s down…stabbed. Left—left—lower abdomen. So…much blood. Administered Celox. It’s slowing the bleeding.”
Blair’s breath caught. She could hear the clinical detachment in his voice, the operator reporting on his patient, but underneath it was a tremor of pure terror. She noted how calm Kodiak’s voice was, a medic’s mask hiding the pain he must be feeling for his fallen teammate and his brother-in-arms.
“Break, breathe, man. Breathe.” Kodiak’s voice was a steady anchor in the storm.
Over the comms, they could hear him taking deep, shuddering breaths, forcing air into his lungs.
“Tell us where you are,” Kodiak pressed.
“Cannery.”
The word was a lifeline. In the helicopter, a collective, silent breath of relief passed through the entire SEAL team. They had a location.
Blair was already moving, leaning forward to yell at the pilot. “Ederly Cannery! You know it?” The pilot gave a sharp nod.
Blair’s voice was soft, urgent, a woman in love instead of a commander. “We’re close, babe. We’re on our way. Hang on!”
