Bulldog lunged after him but Nazari had a head start and knew the compound better than they did. He disappeared through a concealed door in the western office wall, the tunnel they'd suspected, the escape route they'd planned to block. Too late.
"Lost him," Bulldog reported, the words coming out like gravel. "Tunnel's real. He's gone."
That landed like a punch to Steele's gut. Mission failure, the primary objective disappearing into Mosul's underground while they fought for their lives in his compound. But he didn't have time to process it, didn't have time to feel anything about it because Nazari's men were regrouping and coordinating and the compound was turning into exactly the kind of clusterfuck that got people killed.
And then he heard it. A voice, female, calm, giving orders like she'd done this before. "Move. Clear left. I've got the hallway."
Steele rounded the corner and she was there. Dark tactical mask covering the lower half of her face, eyes sharp and assessing above it, weapon steady and ready. She moved with the kind of precision that spoke to training, to experience, to someone who knew exactly what she was doing. She clocked him in half a second, took in the gear and the weapon and the way he moved and made her assessment. Military, American, probably special operations based on the loadout.
He clocked her the same way. Professional operator, unknown affiliation, here for a reason that had nothing to do with his mission.
Their eyes met across the smoke-filled corridor and something passed between them. Recognition of competence, of shared understanding, of two people who operated in the same world even if they'd never crossed paths before.
Who IS this woman?
The question flashed through his mind even as chaos erupted around them. His team's voices were fragmenting in his earpiece, Bulldog reporting that they were cut off, Ghost saying they were taking heavy contact, Risk calling out that they were exfiltrating to the primary rally point. He was trapped on the opposite side of the compound, separated from his team by a wall of hostile fire and burning wreckage.
And this woman with the dark eyes was moving toward the civilians, toward Nazari's wife and son in the eastern bedroom. She was here for them, he realized. Not for Nazari, not for the arms deals or the intelligence, but for the two people his team had been briefed were complications to avoid.
The realization hit as Steele made the tactical calculation in half a second. His team was exfiling, Nazari was gone, and these civilians were about to be caught in a firefight that would get them killed if someone didn't get them out. He grabbed the woman's shoulder and shoved her toward the unknown team that had just breached through the southern wall. "You're here for them."
Not a question. A statement of tactical reality.
She didn't confirm, didn't deny, just grabbed the woman's other arm and started pulling her toward the southern breach point. One of her team members scooped up the boy and the kid didn't fight, didn't cry, just went limp in the way of someone who'd learned that fighting made things worse.
They collapsed toward the exit with Steele covering their retreat, firing controlled bursts down the corridor to keep Nazari's guards from rushing them. The unknown team movedlike they'd done this before, controlled and professional with no wasted motion, no panic, just clean extraction under fire.
They cleared the perimeter wall and sprinted toward vehicles staged in darkness three hundred meters out. Two SUVs, black, no markings, the kind of vehicles operators used when they needed to disappear. Behind them, Nazari's men poured out of the compound in two trucks, older models but fast enough and angry enough to be a problem.
They piled into the lead SUV with one of her team members behind the wheel, hands steady, engine already running. Steele threw himself into the back seat, blood warm down his left calf where he'd taken something in the firefight. Shrapnel maybe, or a ricochet, didn't matter because it could wait.
The SUV lurched forward with tires throwing dirt and gravel. Behind them, one of Nazari's men stood through the truck's sunroof with something long and tube-shaped on his shoulder.
"RPG!" Steele shouted.
The woman in the passenger seat saw it the same instant. "Hard right!"
The driver yanked the wheel but it was too late. The rocket launched in a streak of white fire and smoke and the blast wave slammed the SUV sideways like a giant hand swatting a toy. The vehicle went airborne for a moment that felt like hours, metal screaming, glass shattering, the world rotating in slow motion. They rolled twice before landing hard on the passenger side with a crunch that collapsed the roof and shattered every window.
Silence fell, broken only by the ringing in Steele's ears and the settling of dust. Then distant shouting in Arabic, getting closer.
Steele pushed upright, fighting against gravity and the wreckage. His leg screamed at him, not just pain but something sharp and hot buried deep in his left thigh. He looked down and saw blood soaking through his cargo pants, dark and arterial.Shrapnel from the RPG blast had buried deep, probably hit the femoral artery. He had minutes, maybe less, before blood loss became a problem he couldn't solve.
He kicked the door open with his good leg. The metal groaned and bent but didn't give. He kicked again, harder, and it broke free. He grabbed his rifle from the wreckage and checked the chamber. Still loaded, still functional.
The woman was already moving, unbuckling, pulling the boy free from the wreckage. The kid was conscious now, scared, finally showing emotion. One of her team members dragged the wife clear and the woman was bleeding from a head wound but mobile and conscious.
Nazari's trucks were closing fast. Maybe thirty seconds out, headlights cutting through the darkness.
"You need to move," Steele said.
She turned and looked at him, saw the blood immediately. "You're hit."
"Not dead."
Gunfire sparked off the overturned vehicle as Nazari's men got into range, fanning out, professional pursuit that wasn't going to stop until they'd killed everyone or run out of ammunition.
She grabbed his vest and pulled him close, close enough that he could see her eyes clearly even in the darkness. "We don't leave people behind."
