"Don't you dare die."
The words come out fierce. A command, not a plea.
His mouth quirks. That crooked grin, even now. "Sweetheart, I've got way too much to live for now."
Sera is already pulling me toward the stairs. I grab Rosie—she smells like strawberry yogurt and bubblegum toothpaste—and we run. She's frozen, her small body rigid with a fear no six-year-old should know, and we run.
SIXTEEN
The Firefight
RIOT
Eight hostiles inbound.Maybe more.
The math sucks.
I grab the edge of the kitchen table—heavy oak, solid enough to stop a low-caliber round—and heave it over. It slams into the hardwood with a bone-jarring thud. I kick a chair out of the way, creating a fighting hole.
Above me, the floorboards creak. Sera and Evie. I can hear Rosie’s voice—a small, high-pitched murmur of terror.
Focus. The mission is them. The mission isher.
"Mitzy," I whisper, checking the seal on my earpiece. "Talk to me. Give me the eyes I don't have."
"Eight confirmed on thermal,"Mitzy’s voice crackles, stripped of its usual playfulness."Two more in the vehicles—staging, not pushing yet. They’re setting a perimeter. Two at the front, two at the back, four mobile units circling for a breach. They’re moving with discipline, Riot. These aren't street thugs."
"Echo team status?"
"Twelve minutes,"she snaps."Frost, Flint, and Hawk are pushing the bird to redline. They’re coming from the coast, but you’re in the gap. Twelve minutes is the hard deck."
Twelve minutes.
I do the mental inventory. Two spare mags. Thirty-two rounds plus the fifteen in the chamber. Eight targets.
The air in the kitchen is stagnant, smelling of Rosie’s abandoned strawberry yogurt and the cold, metallic scent of my weapon. I rack the slide, the sound loud as a gunshot in the quiet house. I settle my weight, knees bent, heart rate dropping into that slow, rhythmic thrum of the combat zone.
"Going dark," I mutter.
The front window explodes.
It’s not a shatter; it’s an annihilation. Glass sprays across the living room like diamond-edged shrapnel. I don't think. I roll left, clear of the kitchen island, coming up in a tactical crouch.
A shape looms in the frame. I fire. Two rounds, center mass. The shadow drops. A second man steps over his partner’s body, weapon raised. I don't give him the chance to level it. Two more rounds. He collapses backward into the bushes.
Return fire shreds the entryway. Drywall disintegrated. Plaster dust chokes the air, white and gritty. I relocate, sliding behind the kitchen island as lead chews through the oak table I just flipped.
Two down. Six left.
"Back door.”Mitzy’s voice is a whip-crack."They’re testing the lock.”
I sprint. My boots find traction on the rug, then the tile. I reach the kitchen entrance just as the door splinters. The deadbolt gives way with a scream of tortured metal.
Two men. Tactical formation. High-low breach.
The first one never clears the threshold. I put a round through his throat. He hits the deck, choking. His partner fireswild—high and right. I feel the wind of the bullet pass my ear. I correct my aim, squeeze the trigger, and drop him in the doorway.
Four down. Four left.
