Ice nodded once. “Stack.”
Blair slid into position. Kodiak behind her. Break on the other side of the door jamb, tight and coiled.
Ice didn’t bother with a charge. Too much concussive force. Too close to whoever was inside.
He raised his boot and kicked hard.
The door slammed inward, and the room snapped into horrific focus. Concrete floor. A drain stained dark. Hooks bolted into the ceiling. A chair turned over.
Marques knelt near the center of the room, hands bound, face swollen and slick with blood, chest heaving, eyes glassy but conscious.
Three men with him.
One stood too close, dark jacket, dead eyes. Cartel.
Two others wore cuts, tattoos crawling up their necks. One near the wall. One closer to the door. They were ready. Pistols barked, shots going wild.
Ice fired and dropped the biker near the wall.
The cartel handler swung toward Blair. She was there, then she wasn’t.
Breakneck slammed into her from the side, hard and controlled, shoving her clear as rounds tore past the space she’d occupied. She collided with the wall, air punching from her lungs.
The second biker went down in a hail of fire.
The cartel handler was already moving. He grabbed Marques, hauling him upright, dragging the guard in front of him like a shield.
“Drop him!” Blair shouted, moving left, searching for an angle.
“Don’t shoot,” Marques choked. “He’ll?—”
The handler didn’t hesitate. He locked his arm under Marques’s chin and reached for the knife at his hip, eyes cold, intent absolute.
Everything narrowed for Blair. The noise receded. The air thickened. It was just angles and distances and threats. She shifted again, boots finding purchase on the damp concrete.
Ice held his line steady, waiting. The handler’s head was tucked tight, impossible.
It was Blair who saw the sliver.
She dropped her aim, sight lining up with the handler’s thigh, just below where Marques’s leg blocked the rest. She squeezed. The round punched through muscle. The man screamed, buckling. His grip broke.
Marques tore free with a surge of panicked strength, collapsing forward.
Ice put two rounds into the handler’s chest, center mass.
Breakneck fired once.
The handler’s head snapped back as he fell.
He hit the floor and didn’t move.
“Clear,” Ice said, voice flat. “Kodiak, see to Marques.”
Kodiak was already moving, sliding his rifle behind him and dropping to his knees beside the man. He cut through the bindings with a quick, practiced slice of his knife, then guided Marques carefully onto his side.
Marques wheezed, eyes rolling, breath ragged. “I…wouldn’t talk,” he rasped, words sticking. “I didn’t tell them anything.”
Blair crouched, heart squeezing. “We know. You did good. We’ve got you now.”
