Chapter 82 River
River
The air stank of smoke and seawater, the kind that clings to your lungs and never leaves.
We were running out of ammo and time—but not grit.
“Reloads?” I barked.
“Down to two mags,” Oliver said from his perch.
“Make ‘em count,” I said.
Gage laughed like a man who’d been counting his whole life. “That’s one for each hand.”
Before I could answer, Cyclone’s voice cut through the static.
“Convoy’s inbound—armored vans, east lane. They’re carrying more captives; my scan just lit up six human signatures inside.”
That changed everything.
“Copy,” I said. “We’re not letting them roll out with anyone alive in those boxes.”
Oliver’s calm as ever. “You calling it?”
“Yeah,” I said, gripping my rifle. “Golden Team, we hit them hard and fast. Gage—blow the lead van. Oliver, cover the drivers. Cyclone, when I say go, jam their comms and open the bay gate for extraction.”
“Already on it,” Cyclone replied.
We moved.
The convoy rounded the pier just as the smoke shifted—three armored vans in a tight wedge. Gage broke cover, sprinting through debris like it wasn’t even there. He slid under a half-collapsed crane arm, slapped a charge against the van’s undercarriage, and dove for cover.
The blast ripped the night apart.
Metal screamed, flames burst high, and the remaining vans swerved. Oliver’s rifle cracked twice—two perfect shots. Both drivers slumped forward, vehicles skidding sideways into the barrier.
“Convoy neutralized!” Cyclone reported. “You’ve got a forty-second window before their reinforcements realize they’re gone.”
We rushed in. I yanked open the rear door of the nearest van. Inside, a woman blinked against the smoke, hands bound, eyes wide with disbelief. Behind her, two more people—worn, terrified, still breathing.
“You’re safe,” I said. “We’re getting you out.”
Gage cut the ties with his combat knife, voice low. “Stick close, keep low. We’ve got you.”
Cyclone’s voice came through again, tighter this time. “Reinforcements rerouting. They know you’re there. River, you’ve got to move now!”
“Copy.” I turned to Gage and Oliver. “Get them to the truck—double time.”
Oliver grabbed one of the rescued and pulled them toward the dock gate. Gage helped the others. Their footsteps slapped the wet pavement, the sound too loud but too alive.
I held the line long enough to cover them, then ducked behind a smoking van as bullets shredded the air. One ricochet clipped the edge of my vest, another sparked off the door frame.
“Cyclone, gate’s open?”
“Open!” he shouted. “Move it!”
I sprinted, diving into cover behind the evac truck as it rolled forward. The civilians tumbled inside, shaken but safe. Gage slammed the door shut.
Oliver looked over his shoulder toward the fire blooming in the distance. “That’s our last good deed for the night.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching the smoke twist skyward. “Now it’s Beckett’s turn.”
Cyclone’s tone shifted—low, urgent. “He’s inside the central warehouse. Signal’s solid. Elara’s with him.”
Gage checked his rifle, eyes bright even through the grime. “Guess we better make sure he’s got a clean exit when this is over.”
“Damn right,” I said. “Golden Team holds until the boss walks out.”
And as the truck carrying the rescued tore into the night, we turned back toward the flames—ready to give Beckett every second he needed.