“He’ll move us?”
“He’ll move ghosts if we need him to.” Reaper nodded once. “Says he can pick us up on the river east of here and run us down to a private slip on the coast. From there, it’s twelve hours to our intercept point off the Horn. He’ll have a skiff and a fabricated rescue plan locked and loaded.”
“What’s the cover?”
“Standard misread. We claim the satellite data was off. Blast radius didn’t hit us directly—we got caught in the outershockwave, buried under debris, rode it out in a natural lava tube system. Long trek through hell, found a comms buoy. Civilian fishing vessel picked us up. They’ll call it dumb luck.”
Viper rubbed the back of his neck. “Timeframe?”
“Extraction window’s tight. We move at 0500. Intercept hits just before dusk tomorrow. From there, we’ll get tagged and processed back through military channels.”
Juice cut in. “I’ve prepped the comms trail. Spoofed ID transmits for a third-party vessel. Civilian. Records show an emergency pickup logged into the port authority, but no exact coordinates. It’ll hold up long enough for the Navy to buy the story.”
“They’ll want reports,” Viper said flatly. “They’ll want blood work. Debriefs. Questions.”
“We stick to the script,” Reaper replied. “We were underground, on a PD mission. We stayed alive. It’s damn lucky we had a black job, because plausible deniability puts too many questions above most people’s pay grade.”
“And if they dig deeper?”
“Then they get to go ask the DOD for answers,” Juice said. “Or submit a Freedom of Information request. We all know how those go.”
This might work.
It might just fucking work.
Hooyah.
Viper nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Copy that. We walk out of this clean if we all have the same story. We hand any nosey bastards a FOI application and direct them toward the DOD.”
A round of nods moved through the room.
“Burn your notes. Memorize your lines. I want everyone squared away before we move.”
They’d worked together long enough that no one needed to be told twice. Juice grabbed a marker from the counter and started diagramming the river route across a whiteboard that had been mounted near the back wall—probably once used for grocery lists, now commandeered for exfil planning. Trace disappeared down a hallway and came back hauling a black duffel the size of a coffin, unzipped it with a grim look, and started pulling out weapons.
“Trace, inventory?” Viper asked, already moving to the island to inspect the shit the wolf was lining up along it.
“Two suppressed M4s, three SIG P320s, one .300 Blackout with a can, two shotguns, and a dozen mags each. Ammo’s boxed in the crate by the staircase. Full metal jacket, no tracers.”
Viper gave a single nod and peeled open the ammo box, inspecting each round like his life depended on it—because it did. “Body armor?”
“Level IIIA soft vests, four sets,” Trace said. “And I’ve got one ceramic plate carrier left over from my last federal contract.”
Viper looked at Reaper. “You take the plate. You’re our forward man. I want you bulletproof if it goes sideways.”
Reaper grunted an acknowledgment and started sorting weapons, double-checking each chamber and inspecting everysight with a surgeon’s patience. Zero wordlessly joined him, cleaning his own gear with a worn cloth he pulled from his back pocket.
“Radio?” Juice asked, flipping through his own kit.
“I’ve got four encrypted Motorola HTs,” Trace said. “Short-range only, but clean. Channel 7 for push-to-talk. Batteries are full.”
Juice caught one midair as Trace tossed it to him. “I’ll rig us up some earpieces. Reaper, you still carry that tactical glue?”
Reaper reached into his duffel and pulled out a small tube of epoxy. “Never leave home without it.”
“Good. We’ll seal the PTT cords to the mics. I don’t want ocean water or static screwing us mid-exfil.”
Kaze came up behind them and cracked open another crate, this one filled with old tactical gear, belts, sheaths, and gloves. “You’ve been sitting on a damn armory, Trace. What the hell did you do out here before we showed up?”
