Chapter 13 #2
"Move!" I'm already returning fire, laying down suppressive bursts while Willa scrambles for cover. Odin's barking, that deep warning bay that military working dogs use when threats are imminent.
More muzzle flashes from the cabin. Professional spacing. Coordinated fire patterns. These aren't Committee regulars.
These are mercenaries. Tier One assets. The kind Protocol Seven activates when they want guaranteed results.
"Tommy, we're pinned down!" I duck as rounds punch through the tunnel wall. "How many are we looking at?"
"Eight signatures now. No—ten. They're moving into flanking positions." His voice goes tight. "Kane, you've got teams moving to cut off your retreat. They're trying to trap you in the kill zone."
"Copy that." I glance at Willa. She's pressed against the rock wall, rifle up, eyes scanning for targets. No panic. No hesitation. Just cold assessment. "Doc, you remember the drill? Cover fire on my mark. Three-round bursts. Then move."
"I remember." Her voice is steady. "On your mark."
I count down. "Three, two, one—mark!"
We break from cover simultaneously. Willa's rifle barks three times, three careful shots that make the mercenaries duck even if they don't hit. It's enough. I move to better position, laying down sustained fire that gives her time to relocate.
"Reloading!" she calls.
I shift, suppressing while she changes magazines. The movement is smooth, practiced, exactly what her father taught her.
Good girl.
The mercenaries adjust, concentrating fire on my position. Rock explodes in shrapnel. I feel something hot slice across my ribs but don't stop moving. Can't stop. Stopping means dying.
"North approach!" Willa's voice cuts through. "Two tangos moving through the tree line!"
I swing my rifle, acquire targets. Two figures advancing with professional precision, using the trees for cover. They're good. Well-trained. Well-equipped.
Not good enough.
Two suppressed bursts. Both tangos drop. But more are coming. I can hear them moving through the darkness, coordinating, tightening the net.
"We need to fall back to secondary position," I tell Willa. "The cave entrance seventy meters south. You know it?"
"The one you showed me yesterday?"
"That's the one. When I say go, you run. Don't stop. Don't look back. Just run until you're inside and seal the door behind you."
"What about you?"
"I'll be right behind you." Lie. I'll be covering her retreat, which means staying exposed longer than smart. But that's the job. "Ready?"
"Kane...”
"Ready?" Harder this time.
She nods. Trusts me even though she knows I'm not telling her everything.
"Go!"
She runs.
I count to three, then follow, laying down covering fire that keeps the mercenaries' heads down. Muzzle flashes erupt from multiple positions as they realize we're breaking contact. Bullets chase us down the tunnel, sparking off stone, whining past my head close enough to feel the displacement.
Willa reaches the cave entrance first. I'm ten meters behind her, still firing, when I hear the mechanical click that makes my blood freeze.
Grenade.
"Down!" I tackle Willa through the entrance a half-second before the explosion turns the tunnel into a blast furnace.
The pressure wave slams into us, driving us deeper into the cave system.
My ears ring. Can't hear. Can't think. Just keep moving, dragging Willa with me, putting rock between us and the kill zone.
We collapse thirty meters in, both gasping, both checking for injuries. My ribs are bleeding—the shrapnel cut deeper than I thought—but it's manageable. Willa's got a gash on her forehead, blood streaming down her face, but she's moving, checking her weapon, already scanning for the next threat.
"Odin," she gasps. "Where's...”
The dog materializes from the darkness, unhurt but agitated. He circles once, then positions himself between us and the tunnel entrance.
Still alert. Still detecting chemical signatures.
"They're not done," I tell Willa. "That grenade was meant to flush us out or collapse the entrance. We've got maybe two minutes before they regroup and come after us."
"Then we go deeper. Use the tunnel network to lose them."
"We can't. This isn't connected to Echo Base. It's a dead end—literally. Goes back about a hundred meters, then terminates at a collapse from the original mining operation."
Her eyes widen. "We're trapped."
"We're contained. Different from trapped—we've got options. But they don't know this tunnel's layout. Don't know where the choke points are. And they're about to learn that chasing someone into their home territory is a fatal mistake."
I pull out my tactical display, calling up the tunnel schematics I've memorized living on this mountain. Three natural choke points. Two ambush positions. One collapse zone that could be triggered if necessary.
"Here's what we're going to do," I tell Willa, already moving to position.
"They're going to come in hard and fast, expecting us to be disoriented from the grenade.
Instead, we're going to be waiting at the first choke point.
You take high position on the left outcrop.
I'll take low position on the right. Crossfire pattern.
Anyone who comes through that entrance gets caught in the kill zone. "
"How many do you think are left?"
"At least six. Maybe eight." I check my ammunition. Four magazines plus one loaded. Not great. "Tommy, you reading me?"
Static. The explosion must have damaged my comm unit. We're on our own.
"What about extraction?" Willa asks. "Even if we hold them off, we can't stay here forever."
"We don't need forever. We need thirty minutes. Tommy will send Stryker and Mercer when we don't report back. Standard protocol—if a team goes dark, backup moves in after thirty minutes."
"Thirty minutes." She checks her own ammunition. Three magazines. "Against trained mercenaries in a tunnel we can't escape from."
"Thirty minutes to prove you can do this." I meet her eyes. "To prove you belong on this team. Because if we survive the next half hour, Willa, you're going to have earned your place in a way nobody can question."
She squares her shoulders. Nods once. "Then let's get to work."
We position ourselves at the choke point—natural formation where the tunnel narrows to barely three meters wide. Perfect killing field. Anyone coming through has nowhere to hide, nowhere to maneuver. They'll be exposed for at least five meters before they reach cover.
Five meters we'll turn into hell.
"Remember," I tell her quietly. "Controlled bursts. Pick your targets. Don't empty your magazine on one threat."
"I know." She settles into position, rifle rested on the rock outcrop. "Dad drilled it into me."
"He'd be proud of you right now."
The words are out before I can stop them. Probably not appropriate given the circumstances. But looking at her—jaw set, eyes fierce, ready to fight instead of run—I know they're true.
Gunnery Sergeant Hart raised a warrior. And she's about to prove it.
The sound of boots on stone echoes down the tunnel. They're coming.
I flip my rifle selector to burst fire and wait.
Shadows appear at the tunnel entrance. Three figures, moving with professional spacing. They pause, scanning with night vision, trying to identify threats.
I give them five seconds. Let them commit. Let them think we've retreated deeper into the tunnel.
Then I open fire.
The first burst catches the lead mercenary center mass. He drops. The second burst hits the man behind him, spinning him into the wall. Willa's rifle joins mine, her shots finding the third figure before he can return fire.
Three down in as many seconds.
But more are coming. I can hear them coordinating, adapting, realizing they walked into an ambush instead of catching fleeing targets.
"Reloading," I call.
"Covering," Willa responds, laying down suppressive fire that keeps the mercenaries from advancing. She's smooth, controlled, giving me time to change magazines without leaving us exposed.
The next assault comes differently. They throw flash-bangs—two of them, bouncing off the tunnel walls. I close my eyes, turn away, letting the blast wash over us. It's disorienting but not debilitating. They're hoping we're not prepared for it.
They're wrong.
I fire blind into the tunnel entrance, spraying suppressive rounds at chest height. Willa does the same. The crossfire turns the entrance into a meat grinder. I hear screams, curses, the sound of bodies hitting stone.
When my vision clears, I count two more down. Maybe three. But they're learning. Adjusting their tactics. The next assault will be smarter.
"I'm down to one magazine," Willa says quietly.
"Make it count." I'm on my last two. We've held them for maybe ten minutes. Twenty more until backup arrives.
If backup arrives. If Tommy realized we're in trouble. If Stryker and Mercer can reach us in time.
A lot of ifs.
The tunnel goes quiet. No movement. No sound except our breathing and Odin's low growl. The dog's still alert, still detecting something.
"They're regrouping," I say. "Planning something bigger."
"Or they're calling in reinforcements."
"Probably both." I check my tactical display again. Still no signal. We're blind, deaf, and running out of ammunition. "We might need to fall back to the collapse zone."
"And then?"
"And then we trigger it. Seal the tunnel. Buy ourselves time until...”
Odin's bark cuts me off. Not the warning bay. The alert signal. Chemical weapons detected.
"They're going to gas us out," Willa realizes. "They've got nerve agent and they're going to flood the tunnel."
The implications hit like a sledgehammer. We can hold this position indefinitely against bullets. But nerve agent? We've got no protective equipment, no gas masks, no countermeasures.
We've got maybe three minutes once they deploy it before we're both convulsing on the tunnel floor.