The lead operator snaps his carbine toward the kitchen—where Wren taped the first chemical hand warmer to the table leg. His thermal optic registers the glow. A heat signature in the dark.
"Contact front." Voice distorted by a gas mask.
All three open fire.
Rounds shred the kitchen cabinets and the wall behind them, tearing into empty space where they think a body is hiding. Wren's trick just bought us the only currency that matters in a gunfight: time.
I use it.
I come up from behind the table, bringing the AR up, reticle glowing red. No hesitation.
Pop-pop.
The trailing operator drops, throat armor is insufficient against high-velocity rounds at close range.
Pop-pop.
The second man spins, my rounds catch him in the side gap of his vest. He goes down screaming.
The point man realizes his mistake. He pivots, weapon traversing toward my muzzle flash?—
BOOM.
The Mossberg from the top of the stairs. A guttural roar against the snap of rifle fire. Wren.
The point man is lifted off his feet, thrown backward through the remains of the front door by a full load of buckshot to the chest plate. The armor stops penetration, but the kinetic energy cracks ribs and collapses lungs. He hits the floor wheezing, weapon skittering away.
I move to confirm.
"Clear."
"I got the one in the bedroom." Wren's voice, shaking but loud.
"Reload. Scan your sector."
A put a security round into the point man to ensure he stays down. Then I sweep the breach. The door is gone—jagged wood and twisted hinges. Night air rushes in, cold and reeking of cordite and pulverized drywall.
The suppressed pistol is gone, lost in the initial flashbang disorientation—I registered its absence when I came up from behind the table and found my left hand empty. I'm down to the Glock and one magazine.
We held. Against a three-man entry team, with a civilian on the shotgun, we held.
Relief lasts exactly two seconds.
This was the hammer. There's always an anvil.
"Flash out." A voice from the darkness outside.
"Eyes." I spin away from the door, squeeze my eyes shut.
A canister clatters across the floorboards.
BANG.
Even with my eyes shut and head turned, the flashbang is blinding—a supernova behind my eyelids. The pressure wave scrambles my equilibrium. A high-pitched whine drowns out the world.
I'm stumbling. The floor feels tilted.
Shadows pour through the broken door. More of them. Too many.
