His gaze drops to the blood soaking the sleeve of my jacket. He looks at my cracked chest plate.
"Guess you're not dead." Frost's voice is tight, stripping away the icy armor of the tactical commander. "Thought you might enjoy some help."
He doesn't ask for an apology. He doesn't offer one. He doesn't mention the brutal words we exchanged in the motel parking lot.
He pulls a spare rifle from his sling and shoves it hard against my chest.
"Let's go to work."
SIXTEEN
The Execution
WYATT
The heavy weight of the Guardian-issued rifle in my hands anchors me to the present. The cold composite stock presses against my wounded shoulder. The familiar metallic click of the safety disengaging cuts through the ringing in my ears.
Four years of operating as a ghost vanish in a single breath.
Frost falls into step beside me.
We don't speak. Decades of training and shared blood dictate the rhythm. He takes the left flank. My boots settle on the right.
"Riot, Flint, secure the perimeter and hold the south corridor." Frost's voice is a low, mechanical hum in his headset. "Kade, keep overwatch. Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out."
"Copy that." Kade's voice crackles over the radio. "You have a clear path to the rear utility entrance. I count five heat signatures spread across the ground floor."
Pain grinds through my chest with every step. The shattered ceramic of the plate carrier digs into my cracked ribs. The jagged agony radiates down my spine, threatening to buckle my knees, but adrenaline burns hotter than the damage.
We reach the heavy steel utility door at the rear of the hacienda.
Frost checks the handle. Locked.
A silent nod passes between us.
Frost steps back, driving a heavy front kick directly into the lock mechanism. The reinforced steel buckles inward with a deafening crack, tearing the deadbolt out of the doorframe.
My rifle comes up before the door hits the interior wall.
The hacienda's industrial kitchen is a massive expanse of stainless steel prep tables and hanging copper pots. The blown generators have plunged the room into absolute darkness. The narrow beam of the rifle's tactical light cuts through the gloom, casting long, warped shadows across the tile.
Movement flickers near the walk-in freezer.
A mercenary dives behind a thick butcher block, his weapon rising blindly into the dark.
Two suppressed rounds from my rifle take him through the heavy wood. The copper-jacketed bullets punch directly into his throat before his finger can brush the trigger. He slumps backward, his weapon clattering uselessly against the tile.
To my left, Frost drops a second target crouching near the industrial ovens. A tight three-round burst hits the center mass. The man crashes backward over a prep cart, sending a cascade of metal pans crashing to the floor. Blood sprays against the stainless steel refrigerator doors.
The kitchen goes dead quiet. The metallic ping of spent brass rolling across the floor is the only sound left.
"Clear," Frost mutters, his weapon trained on the swinging doors leading to the dining room.
My breathing is ragged. Every pull of oxygen feels like inhaling ground glass. The tourniquet Frost applied to my bicep is tight, cutting off the circulation, but the blood soaking my left sleeve is already turning cold and tacky against my skin.
Frost glances at me. His eyes lock onto my heaving chest.
He doesn't ask if I can keep going. He knows the answer.
