"So, he's waiting."
"He's waiting."
I check the Glock. One round chambered. Four in the magazine. My spare mags are gone—lost in the tunnel or the scramble down the slope. Five rounds to stop a Tier One operator who is fresh, equipped, and patient.
My hand is shaking.
"Give me the shotgun."
Wren shakes her head. Face smeared with dirt and my blood. Eyes clear and ferocious. "No. You can't handle the recoil—your arm is shredded. You fire that thing, you pass out from the pain."
"I can?—"
"No." She tightens her grip on the Mossberg. "You take the pistol. Cover me. I take point."
"You are not walking into a kill box first."
"Look at you." Her voice cracks, but she doesn't back down. "You're gray. You're bleeding out. If you walk out there, he drops you before you can lift your arm. If I walk out... maybe he hesitates. Maybe he wants to talk. Maybe he underestimates me."
Tactically, she's right. Completely right. And I hate it with every fiber I have left—every instinct, every protocol, every vow I made to myself after Amara.
But we aren't client and protector. We're partners. The partner with working arms takes the heavy weapon.
"Okay." The word tastes like ash. "But you don't hesitate. You see him, you put him down. Center mass. Don't think about it."
"I won't."
Her hand goes into her pocket. It closes around the last chemical hand warmer packet. She grips it like a talisman.
"Stay close."
We move out.
The ravine isa nightmare of shadows. Wind howls through the gap, masking our approach and deafening us to anything moving nearby. Brush waist-high in every direction. Perfect ambush country.
We move in a staggered column—Wren five paces ahead, me trailing, scanning the flanks. My gun hand trembles. I brace my wrist against my chest.
Ten yards. Twenty.
The ridge above us. Tantalizingly close.
A twig snaps.
Not natural. The distinct, sharp crack of a boot on dry wood.
Right flank.
Wren spins with the shotgun, but he's already moving.
Ivan steps out from behind a boulder. Ten yards. Not hiding—standing in the open, pistol leveled, posture relaxed. Almost bored. The bearing of a man who has done this so many times that killing is administrative.
"You were supposed to be the easy part of this job, Bishop." His English is precise, lightly accented. "I want you to know how personally I'm taking the inconvenience."
"Drop it," Wren says. The Mossberg is on his chest.
Ivan's eyes flick to her, then away. Not dismissive—categorizing. He keeps his weapon on her. It's a standoff she can't win. She has to aim, fire, and trust the spread. He has to twitch.
"Drop it, Miss Calloway. Or the next sound you hear is your own skull cracking."
