I shift position. Move to the next window. Better angle on the contractors regrouping near the lead SUV. I fire. Miss. Adjust. Fire again. Hit. The contractor spins, goes down clutching his side.
The assault breaks. They fall back toward the vehicles, dragging the wounded with them. Textbook retreat under fire.
But they leave bodies behind. One wounded contractor, crawling toward cover leaving a blood trail in the snow.
"Cease fire," I call over the radio.
The shooting stops. The surviving contractors retreat down the access road. Engines rev. They're pulling back to regroup.
I key the radio again. "Finn, status?"
"Multiple hostiles confirmed in the kill box. One wounded crawling toward the treeline. Want me to finish him?"
"Negative. Let him crawl. We need prisoners."
I move outside. The temperature's dropped. Snow starting to fall in light flurries. The wounded contractor's a stone's throw from cover, bleeding into the snow from a shoulder wound.
I approach with my weapon up. He sees me coming. Reaches for his sidearm with his good hand.
"Don't." My voice flat. Operational. "Move and I put the next round through your head."
He freezes. Smart. Self-preservation winning out over the paycheck.
I kick his weapon away. Zip-tie his hands behind his back. I drag him toward the compound. He's heavy but adrenaline makes it manageable. Zeke appears, helps me get the contractor inside.
We drop him in the main room. He's fit, experienced bearing. A trained operator who chose the wrong contract.
Helena appears in the doorway. Takes in the wounded contractor, the blood trail across the floor, my expression. Something shifts in her face when she looks at me. Wariness. Recognition of what I just became out there.
Her breathing changes. Quick. Shallow.
Not fear. Something else.
"Gunshot wound to the shoulder," I tell her. "The artery's intact or he'd be dead already. Stabilize him. We need him conscious for questioning."
She doesn't argue. Just moves into doctor mode, getting supplies, applying pressure to the wound. Clinical detachment that probably serves her well right now.
But I see her hands tremble when she passes close to me. Her pupils dilate when our eyes meet. My body responds—heat low in my gut, awareness of exactly how she felt under me last night.
Not now. Push it away.
The contractor's watching her work. His eyes shift to me. Recognition there. Not my face, but what I am.
"You're military," he says through gritted teeth.
"Was."
"The client said this was a soft target. Isolated compound. Minimal resistance."
"The client lied."
The radio crackles. Cara's voice, urgent. "Second wave incoming. The sensors are picking up movement from the east and south simultaneously. They're trying a pincer maneuver."
I move to the tactical display. Two teams approaching from different vectors. Coordinated assault designed to split our attention and overwhelm defensive positions.
Standard playbook. And exactly what I expected.
"Finn, hold the western position but watch for eastern movement. Zeke, you've got east primary. I'll take south. Cara, call out positions as they develop."
