"Run." The command slips past my lips in a hushed breath.
We sprint. Her bare feet are a frantic slap against the concrete. We're twenty feet from the safe room when the heavythud-thud-thudof combat boots hits the end of the hall.
"Inside! Now!"
I shove Lily through the threshold. She stumbles toward the cot, and I grab the heavy steel handle, pushing the door closed with everything I have.
It's too heavy. It's too slow.
The man rounds the corner while the door is still six inches from the jamb. He's a shadow in tactical gear, face masked. He raises a compact rifle.
I throw my shoulder into the steel, trying to force the seal flush so the mag-bolt can engage, but he's already there.
He slams his weight against the outside of the door. The impact rattles my bones. The steel heaves inward, throwing me back.
He's in.
The rifle barrel levels. Lily is right behind me, frozen by the cot.
I launch myself between the barrel and Lily, my feet leaving the floor as I bridge the gap.
This is the calculation.
A life for a life.
The ledger finally balances.
He fires.
30
The Debt Of Blood
THORNE
The loading bayis a tunnel of strobing red and the rhythmic, deafening bark of suppressed fire.
The breach came through the roll-up door—a precision charge that vaporized the hinges. Phoenix didn't send a scouting party; they sent a professional cleaning crew. My boots skid on the slick concrete as I drop behind a stack of industrial crates, the impact jarring my teeth.
"Torque, left flank. Halo, stay on the monitors," Ghost's voice cuts through the klaxon.
Beside me, Forest is a wall of deliberate violence, his rifle spitting brass in a steady, lethal cadence. To my right, Brass and Fuse have locked down the secondary entrance, their movements synchronized and surgical. We're holding the line. We're the barrier.
"One's through," Ghost's voice cracks over the comms, sharp and urgent. "Residential corridor. He bypassed the kitchen."
The air in my lungs turns to ice.
"I'm going." I'm already shoving off the crate, but the air suddenly fills with thethwip-thwipof suppressed rounds. Aline of sparks dances across the concrete inches from my boots, pinning me back.
"Negative." Ghost's voice crackles over the comms, flat and uncompromising. "You've got a three-man element suppressing the bay exit. If you move, you're dead."
"My daughter is in that wing." I lean out to lay down cover fire, desperate to buy a second of movement.
"I can't get there," Ghost's voice is strained. "I'm pinned at the armory."
I grit my teeth, the choice tearing me apart. If I don't break the suppression here, the whole team dies in this bay. Whisper is ghosting through the shadows near the rafters, trying to get a vertical angle on the shooters, but he can't get a clean shot.
I vent my rage into the optics of my rifle, taking out the shooter pinning the door. The second the pressure eases, I don't wait for the clear. I'm in a dead sprint before the thought even finishes. Torque provides suppressive fire, a wall of lead that keeps the remaining mercs' heads down as I clear the bay.
