Page 48 of Bram

First checkpoint done, no alarms yet, but I could see motion in the towers—somebody noticed the breach, or maybe a motion sensor tripped. Either way, we moved fast, two-by-two, low to the ground, each man with eyes up. My hands were steady, but the blood from my side was already warming the waistband. I ignored it.

Sniper’s hand shot out, stopping me behind a half-dead Joshua tree. “They’re moving,” he said, voice pitched low. He pointed at the main building—a cinder block rectangle with two narrow windows, both dark, but a new shadow cut across the front porch.

Trace hissed from ten feet up, “We hit the garage first, then double back. Clear from the outside in.”

I nodded, motioned him forward.

The rest followed, silent, a string of bodies in borrowed armor. Every man I’d ever trusted was here, most of them already thinking they’d never see another sunrise. If I was supposed to stay behind and watch my sons eat the first bullets, I didn’t get the memo.

I took point for the second wave, trailing just close enough to see Sniper’s hand signals and close enough to hear Trace’s crew as they stacked up outside the side door. Kodiak was already at the garage, checking the side for a quick way in. He found it—a weak door, barely hanging on its hinges. He drew back, booted it open, and the world went loud.

The first Scorpion out the door had a sawed-off in one hand and a tire iron in the other. Kodiak shot him in the thigh, then in the throat. The man made a wet grunt and folded, the gun spinning away. A second Scorpion came up from behind, swinging a crowbar, but Sniper dropped him with a double-tap to the chest, the rounds sharp and tidy.

More shots from the far end: Trace’s boys clearing the second outbuilding. I couldn’t see them, but I heard the muffled sound of flesh on flesh, then a scream that lasted less than a breath.

Main house now. Two windows, one door, no lights inside. I made for the porch, heart pounding in a slow, steady rhythm, every step a wave of pain from the wound. Sniper caught up, panting, his face raw.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“Not enough to matter,” I said.

He nodded, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and signaled the rest forward.

I took the door.

It wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even latched. That should have been a sign, but sometimes the job calls for arrogance.

Inside, three men in a row, two on the couch, one behind the kitchen island. No time for words. I leveled the gun at the biggest one—leather vest, arms bigger than my legs—and shot him in the knee. He buckled, hit the floor, started to bring up a pistol, and I finished him with a round in the eye.

“Fucking assholes,” someone yelled.

“It’s Bram!”

Hearing my name gave me a smile.

The other two tried to get around the island, but Sniper and Trace came in behind me, moving like wolves. Trace grabbed the smaller man by the throat, drove his head into the counter, and let him sag to the tile. Sniper aimed at the last one—an older Scorpion with a face like roadkill—and squeezed off one round, perfect placement, right through the bottom of the jaw.

It was quiet again. The whole entry took under a minute.

The pain was worse now, a sharp heat under the ribs. I could feel the blood soaking through the old shirt, but the adrenaline ran ahead of it, kept me standing.

We cleared the rooms one by one—bathroom, empty; back bedroom, two women, naked and screaming, huddled in the closet. I stepped back, let the women crawl out, told them to stay down and keep their mouths shut. They did.

Sniper looked at me, the question already in his eyes.

“Garage next,” I said. “Trace, go.”

He did, running with three men close behind.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen, breathing hard, the floor sticky under my boots. I could smell cordite, sweat, and a strange sweetness, like antifreeze.

A voice from the back room: “All clear.”

I nodded and stepped outside. The dawn was still an hour off, but the sky had lightened to a dirty blue. The floodlights on the towers were still on, but no one stood at the railing anymore.

Kodiak jogged up, blood spattered on his sleeve. “We’re good,” he said. “One down in the garage. Rest took off out the back. You want a crew to sweep for survivors?”

“Do it,” I said. “And find me a fucking bandage.”