12
HELENA
Cordite hangs in the air, sharp and metallic.
I move through the compound checking everyone over. Eli's at the window running another perimeter scan even though the sensors show clear. Zeke's reloading magazines with methodical precision, his hands steady despite the adrenaline still running through him. Marc Wells, Rhys's deputy and our extra warrior, climbs down from the ridge position, his rifle slung across his back.
Everyone's moving. Everyone's intact.
The firefight ended less than an hour ago. Bodies lie outside in the snow where contractors fell. Two more sit zip-tied inside, bleeding but stable enough to answer questions. Rhys's people are processing the scene and taking custody of the prisoners.
Finn’s moving well though favoring his left shoulder—a wound from the assault. I had patched it then, and he's been careful with it since, but sustained firing from a defensive position puts stress on healing tissue.
"How's the shoulder holding up?" I ask.
"Sore but functional." He rotates it carefully, testing the range of motion. "I'll live."
I check it anyway. No fresh bleeding, no signs the old wound reopened. Just muscle fatigue from holding a firing position for an extended engagement. I hand him ibuprofen and water.
"Take these. Ice it tonight."
"Yes ma'am."
Zeke's got scrapes across his knuckles from when he had to pull a jammed magazine free during the firefight. Minor abrasions, nothing serious. I clean them with antiseptic while he gives me a rundown of the ammunition expenditure and the defensive position integrity.
"We burned through more rounds than I'd like," he says. "But the compound held. They didn't breach the perimeter."
"How many contractors?"
"Started with roughly a dozen. We dropped three permanently, wounded two more that their team dragged back during retreat. Captured two." His jaw tightens. "The rest withdrew, probably regrouping at whatever staging area Graves is using."
Eli's scanning the tree line with that cold, methodical focus that does things to my pulse I don't have time for. Blood spatter is still visible on his forearm where he dragged the wounded contractor. His hands are steady on the rifle like the weapon's an extension of his body.
This is what he looked like in the field. What David became and couldn't walk back from.
Except Eli's fighting it. He's containing the darkness instead of drowning in it.
I finish with Zeke and move to check the captured contractors. Both are now in the communications room, zip-tied and under Cara's watch. The first one's got a shoulder wound from where Eli shot him during the initial assault. It's a clean through-and-through, missed the major vessels but tore muscle on exit. I irrigate it, pack it with gauze, and immobilize the arm.
"You're not dying today," I tell him. "Whether that's good news depends on how cooperative you are."
The second contractor's got facial trauma from when Eli took him down with a rifle butt. He has a broken nose and a definite orbital fracture, with one eye already swelling shut. It's brutal efficiency that comes from knowing exactly where to hit to incapacitate without killing. I check his pupils and verify no signs of brain bleed beyond the obvious damage. I give him an ice pack, pain medication, and field stabilization.
They'll both live long enough to testify against the man who hired them.
Cara finishes her interrogation when I complete the medical assessment. She walks out with the grim expression of someone who's just confirmed their worst fears.
"Graves ordered this personally," she says without preamble. "Full tactical assault. Eliminate everyone in the compound, retrieve or eliminate Traci. He's not trying to cover his tracks anymore—he's trying to erase the evidence before it destroys him."
"How many more teams does he have?" Zeke asks.
"These two don't know for certain. But they were hired through the same broker, same staging area south of here. At least one more team on standby, possibly more." Cara's jaw tightens. "Graves is burning through his war chest, but he's got resources left."
Silence stretches. Everyone is processing what that means—more assaults coming, more contractors with federal-grade equipment, Graves getting more desperate as his empire crumbles.
"Where's Traci?" I ask.
"Infirmary," Eli says from the window. "Locked herself in when the shooting started. Hasn't come out."
