27. Contact Burns
27
CONTACT BURNS
The ancient fire escape shed rust like dead skin, each step a metallic protest. Kitchen exhaust battled with the smell of corroded iron, masking their presence from the heavily armed men above. Three rooftops’ worth of running had turned Maya’s legs to rubber, but Griffin wasn’t done leading them through this vertical maze.
Before she could get her bearings, Griffin shoved her toward a scratched and dented service door. He yanked it open and pulled her inside. The sudden transition from underground tunnel to fluorescent-lit kitchen making her head spin.
Boardwalk Bangkok , her mind registered automatically, catching glimpses of red and gold signage as they slipped past startled kitchen staff. Maya’s tactical training kicked in, categorizing the space even as they moved through it. Two main exits. Three possible weapons within reach. Four workers who could either help or hinder. Usually, she analyzed scenes like this from a pursuer’s perspective. Being on the other side of the hunt sent ice down her spine.
Steam billowed from industrial dishwashers, providing momentary cover. The clatter of pots and shouts in Spanish covered their footsteps. But there was no hiding from the tactical teams that had to be converging on their position—teams that shouldn’t have known where to look.
The smell of garlic and seared meat made her stomach clench, reminding her they’d been running this op for hours. Her muscles burned from the constant tension of staying alert while playing tourist.
Maya caught Griffin working his phone one-handed even as he guided her through the busy kitchen. When he noticed her watching, he gave a grim smile. “Insurance,” he murmured. He tucked the phone away before she could see more.
Through her earpiece, Ronan’s measured breathing told her he was still running. From the sound of it, taking evasive action.
Christian’s voice cut through the kitchen noise. “Creating a diversion at the checkpoint. These bodybuilders are very interested in proper form.”
Griffin guided them past a walk-in freezer, his hand signals indicating multiple hostiles converging. Maya caught a glimpse of their reflection in a steel cabinet—they looked exactly like what they were: fugitives.
“Ronan, south exit,” Griffin commanded through his own comms, his voice barely a whisper. “Christian, create chaos at the checkpoint.”
“Copy that, Ghost.” Christian’s reply was followed by the sound of weights crashing and men shouting.
They emerged into a wine cellar. Griffin pulled up a trapdoor Maya would have sworn was just part of the flooring. “Venice canal maintenance tunnels. Ladies first.”
“Whole tactical team moving in,” Ronan reported. “They’re not even trying to be subtle now.”
The tunnel was dank, the air thick with decades of moisture. Griffin produced a small flashlight, illuminating ancient brickwork. “This way. Ronan, Christian—mark your positions.”
Maya heard their locations, realized Griffin was leading them in a converging pattern. Smart. The tunnels would conceal their meet up from their pursuers. And the drones.
But as they approached the junction point, Griffin stopped abruptly. “Company.”
Flashlight beams bounced off the curved walls ahead. Behind them, more lights appeared. The tactical team had known about the tunnels.
“Ghost ...” Ronan’s warning came just as multiple tactical teams converged from both directions.
Maya’s pulse hammered in her throat as flashlight beams cut through the tunnel’s darkness. The dank air felt suddenly thinner, harder to breathe. Her back pressed against slick brick, every nerve ending screaming for action. But years of training held her still, held her ready.
She cataloged their situation with brutal clarity: two exits blocked, unknown number of hostiles, limited cover, and the copper-penny taste of fear in her mouth. They were underground, in the dark, outnumbered.
And she and Ronan, at least, were suspects in at least two murders, and untold breaches of national security. Whether the tactical teams were good guys or enemies, they’d have no trouble explaining why they shot the four of them dead.
Her fingers found the grip of her weapon, the familiar texture steadying her. The tunnel’s acoustics carried the soft clicks of multiple weapons being readied. The sound sent ice down her spine even as her muscles coiled for action.
A beam of light cut through the tunnel darkness, deliberately aimed to blind them. Maya caught glimpses as the light shifted: tactical gear, professional stance. The leader moved with the kind of effortless control she’d only seen in elite SWAT operators, his weapon an extension of his body. This wasn’t some rent-a-cop or weekend warrior. Every movement screamed federal training, but not the kind they advertised in recruitment videos.
When he spoke, his voice carried both authority and amusement, bouncing off the tunnel walls. “Last chance, Hawkins!” The accent was pure Midwest, heartland America. Not what she’d expected from their shadowy pursuers. “You’ve got nowhere left to run.”
Griffin’s thumb moved across his phone screen, the glow highlighting his razor-sharp focus. “You might want to reconsider,” he called back. His voice held that dangerous edge Maya had learned to recognize. “I’ve got two years of Sullivan’s intel. Every clinic. Every lab. Every victim. One click, and it all goes public.”
“You’re bluffing.” But there was a new tension in that heartland voice, a flicker of uncertainty that hadn’t been there before.
“Try me.” Griffin’s thumb hovered over the screen. “I’ve got enough to bury everyone involved. Your choice—back off, or watch your whole operation implode.”
“Upload whatever you want. We own the channels.” The team leader’s voice echoed off the bricks.
Griffin’s laugh was soft, deadly. “I’m not talking about news outlets.” He thumbed something on his phone. “I’m talking FBI. CIA. NSA. All getting real-time data about American operatives disappearing American veterans. Think you can contain that?”
Flashlight beams caught the sweat on Griffin’s face. This was no bluff—Maya could read the tension in every line of his body.
Shots exploded outside the tunnel. Griff shoved her behind a support column. The back of her head collided with the wall, making her see stars. Return fire lit up the darkness as bullets crossed the entrance. Through the muzzle flashes, she caught Griffin’s subtle movements—the quick press of devices against the tunnel supports. Some kind of explosive charges, most likely.
“Run. Now. Back the way we came.” Griffin’s voice competed with the firefight. “Go!”
She understood instantly. While they’d been talking, he’d been positioning the charges between them and the enemy—and setting up their exit strategy.
She turned and ran back the way they’d come.
“Hold your fire!” The leader’s voice cracked with authority. “Hawkins has a—” His words cut off as Griffin triggered the explosion.
The blast was controlled but devastating in the enclosed space. Shards of cement filled the air behind them as they ran, buying precious seconds. They emerged through a maintenance shaft two blocks from their extraction point, her ears still ringing from the detonations.
Two familiar figures rushed toward them. Blood trickled down the side of Christian’s face. Ronan was cradling his left arm, his shirt torn and bloody. Griffin looked worst of all—pale, limping, but his eyes burned with a fierce intensity.
“Car. Now.” He pushed them toward the waiting Knight Tactical SUV. “They’ll have every asset in play within minutes.”
Maya heard sirens converging as they peeled away from the curb. Griffin slumped against the seat, finally letting exhaustion show.
“They shouldn’t have known,” he said quietly, pressing a hand against his shoulder where blood was seeping through. “Someone leaked the meet. And they were willing to kill us all to contain this.”
Griff and Christian exchanged grim looks. “We need to get back to headquarters,” Christian said, applying pressure to his own wound. “Figure out if they tracked you, or us.”
“Or if we’ve got another problem entirely,” Ronan added, his voice tight with pain and concern.
Maya caught Ronan’s eye. After years in Homicide, she knew that look—the one suspects got when they realized they weren’t the predator anymore. They were the prey.