Chapter 77 Beckett
Beckett
We found cover inside an abandoned cargo office—half the windows blown out, the rest smeared with grime and salt. The hum of the harbor bled through the walls: waves lapping at steel hulls, distant shouts echoing off metal. Somewhere out there, Hydra’s men were regrouping.
Cyclone spread his gear across a cracked desk, fingers moving fast. “They’re triangulating the blackout points,” he muttered. “If they get power back, we’re boxed.”
“Then we stay ahead of them,” River said, loading a fresh magazine. “Oliver and Gage are still at the eastern warehouse, pulling the last of the civilians. Once they’re clear, we blow the docks.”
Beckett nodded, examining the map Cyclone displayed on the wall—three blinking red markers pulsing like heartbeats. “That’ll bury Viktor’s shipment,” he said. “But we need him alive. He’s our link to Grand.”
Elara stood by the door, her back straight, rifle resting on her shoulder. The rescued boy sat next to her on an overturned crate, wrapped in Beckett’s jacket, clutching his teddy bear tightly. Occasionally, he looked up at her as if she were the first person he had trusted in years.
“He’s scared,” she whispered.
Beckett stepped beside her, lowering his voice. “So am I.”
That earned him a faint smile—small, but real. “You don’t look it.”
“That’s the trick.” He let his hand brush hers for the briefest second, grounding both of them.
Outside, a low horn sounded across the water. Cyclone’s head snapped up. “That’s not a ship signal. That’s code. Hydra’s regrouping along the southern pier.”
River swore under his breath. “They’re pulling every man they’ve got.”
Elara’s eyes narrowed toward the window, where faint lights flickered along the horizon. “They’re coming for the shipment.”
“No,” Beckett said quietly, his gaze locked on the distant cranes turning slowly and deliberately. “They’re coming for her. Grand’s lieutenant doesn’t want the cargo—he wants to clean up the mess.”
Cyclone killed the lights on his rig. “Then we have five minutes before hell arrives.”
Silence settled like dust. The kind of silence that hums with inevitability.
River adjusted his earpiece. “Gage and Oliver are on approach with the evac truck. Once they hit the gate, we run the civilians out.”
Beckett turned to Elara. “When the fight starts, you stay close to me. No heroics.”
Her reply was sharp and certain. “You’ll have to keep up.”
He almost smiled. “Deal.”
Outside, the sound of engines grew louder—low, rolling, mechanical thunder crossing the docks.
The boy buried his face against Elara’s side. She whispered something soft to him, a promise too quiet for anyone else to hear.
Beckett chambered his weapon, his pulse steady as steel.
The calm had done its job. Now came the storm.
He looked at his team, at Elara, at the faint glow of dawn beginning to edge the horizon.
“Positions,” he said.
And then the night shattered.