As they parked in the target building’s lot, Milford’s voice came over their comms. “Still no sign of lookouts. Six heat signatures still in the same area of the basement.”
“Let’s move,” Bowden ordered as they exited the vehicles simultaneously.
They split cleanly. While the Bravo team headed for the side entrance, Alpha made a beeline toward the front. Late summer light still clung to the brick façade, the heat of the sun reflecting off it.
Rafe was prepared to pick the lock if necessary,but they lucked out. A gray-haired man exited the front door with a small white dog on a leash. His eyes widened when he saw the five men in full protective gear, badges on their hips, and weapons in hand. Stepping to the side, he held the door open for them, then hustled down the sidewalk, practically dragging the dog behind him.
The air shifted immediately as the door quietly closed behind them—damp, stale, heavy with mildew and something sour underneath. The stairwell lights buzzed faintly overhead. From below, male voices drifted up. Laughter. The scrape of a chair.
“Alpha in,” Hawkins whispered into his comm unit.
Bowden’s response was immediate. “Bravo in.” Either the side door was unlocked, or someone had let them in, too, because it would’ve taken longer for someone to pick it.
00:05:47
Brian felt the narrowing begin. The outside world faded. All that existed was their immediate surroundings.
Quickly and quietly, they located the stairwell at the near end of the first-floor corridor and descended in tight formation. The temperature dropped as they moved lower.
Hawk reached the bottom of the stairs first and raised a fist.
The rest haltedinstantly.
The basement wasn’t one open room. It was expansive. They’d known that from the floor plans.
Concrete stretched in multiple directions beyond the landing—wide open areas were broken up by rows of chain-link storage cages filled with residents’ belongings. Mattresses wrapped in plastic. Old dressers. Bicycles. Holiday decorations in cracked bins. Tires stacked in corners.
Down one hallway, several solid-core doors stood closed—utility rooms.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting uneven light and deep shadows between the cages.
Voices carried through the open space.
Close.
Rafe angled left, scanning the aisles between storage cages. Delgado drifted right, his weapon tracking the dark corridors that branched toward the utility doors. Brian focused his attention on the door to their left. It was ajar just enough to let a narrow band of yellow light through, but not enough to expose either side.
From deeper inside, a man laughed.
The sound bounced off concrete and metal.
Across the basement, Bowden and Bravo emerged silently from the secondary stairwell, moving low and deliberate between storage cages. No footsteps echoed. No gear rattled. Just controlled, measured progress.
Hawk caught Bowden’s eye and pointed to the open door. The captain gave a small nod and led histeam toward it. Everyone’s head was on swivel, making sure no one could sneak up on them.
Both teams closed the distance to their target room without crossing fields of fire. They stacked up in position along the wall on either side of the doorway.
Hawk pulled a small retractable mirror from his pocket, extended the handle, then angled the round end so he could see inside the room in the reflection.
Everyone stilled.
Since Hawk needed both hands for the mirror and signals, his Colt M4 assault rifle hung at his side on its tactical sling, leaving him temporarily exposed yet still allowing him to grab it quickly. Brian shifted behind him, his 9mm handgun trained on the door in case it opened suddenly. On the other side, Bowden did the same.
Hawk lifted his hand with all fingers extended, confirming five hostiles.
He lowered his palm to knee height, angled two fingers to indicate the left side of the room, then cupped his hand over his own head—Tess was sitting or lying on the floor against the left wall, wearing some kind of hood.
Finally, the man tapped two fingers to his sternum three times, signifying proof of life.
