Chapter 16 #2
"Yes, it does." Kessler signals, and tactical team members emerge from multiple entry points. Twenty men. Full combat gear. Surrounding us on all sides. "You burned my career, Kane. Destroyed everything I built."
"We followed orders. We burned evidence of illegal chemical weapons development. That was the mission."
"You buried the truth!" Kessler's voice cracks with rage. "Hart wanted those weapons exposed. Wanted to tell the world what the Committee was building. You buried it all—buried him right along with it."
"To protect innocent people," Kane counters. "To prevent exactly this—weapons falling into the wrong hands."
"To save your ass!" Kessler cuts him off. "You branded him a traitor. Made sure nobody would ever believe him."
Behind me, the data download continues. Sixty percent complete. I need more time.
"You're going to kill thousands of people. For what? Some twisted vision of patriotism?"
"For order." Kessler's eyes lock on mine. "Your father understood that, Dr. Hart. He knew the country was broken. Knew it needed people willing to make hard choices."
"My father kept his silence."
"Because Kane's team made sure he was too afraid to talk. They destroyed his reputation. Made sure nobody would believe him even if he did speak out." Kessler takes a step closer. "Your father died afraid and alone because of the man standing next to you."
The words hollow me out. Everything I thought I understood about my father's death shifts, reforming into something uglier. I look at Kane, seeing the truth in his face. The guilt he's been carrying.
"Is that true?"
"Yes." Kane doesn't look away. "We didn't kill him, Willa. But we destroyed his credibility. Made sure his testimony would be dismissed as conspiracy theory. I'm not proud of it."
"You killed him anyway." Kessler's weapon comes up. "Might as well have put the bullet in his head yourself. And now I'm going to return the favor."
His team raises their weapons in unison. Twenty rifles aimed at Kane and me. The download is at seventy-five percent. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
I have to choose.
Complete the upload and give Tommy the evidence he needs to stop the attack. Or help Kane fight our way out and maybe survive the next five minutes.
The math is simple. The answer is impossible.
"Willa, run." Kane's voice is steady. Resigned. "Take Odin and go."
"No." I keep my eyes on the screen. Eighty percent. "We finish this together."
"You took my career, my honor." Kessler's finger tightens on the trigger. "Now I take everything you love."
Gunfire explodes through the facility.
I throw myself behind the computer terminal as rounds tear through the air where I was standing. Kane returns fire, his rifle barking in controlled bursts. Odin snarls, pressed against my legs, trained well enough to stay down during combat.
The terminal screen shows eighty-five percent. So close. So impossibly close.
I draw my sidearm, blind firing over the terminal to keep Kessler's team from rushing our position. My shots aren't aimed—I'm not trained for this kind of firefight—but they buy seconds. Precious seconds while the upload continues.
Kane empties a magazine, drops it, reloads with practiced speed. "Stryker, I need backup!"
"Pinned down!" Stryker's voice is barely audible over the gunfire. "They've got us surrounded!"
Ninety percent.
A round punches through the terminal housing, sparking. The screen flickers. No. Not now. Not when we're this close.
Another burst of fire stitches across the wall above my head, showering me with concrete dust. I duck lower, shielding the terminal with my body. If the computer takes a direct hit, the upload dies. Everything we've risked dies with it.
"Rourke, I need suppressing fire on the loading dock!"
Rourke's rifle cracks once, twice. One of Kessler's men drops.
Then another. But there are too many. They advance in coordinated fire teams, professional and relentless.
Bounding overwatch. Suppressive fire. Flanking maneuvers.
These aren't hired guns or mercenaries—they're trained operators who know exactly what they're doing.
Ninety-two percent.
"They're flanking left!" Kane shifts position, engaging new targets. His rifle runs dry. He drops the magazine, reaches for a fresh one, and a round catches him in the shoulder plate of his body armor. The impact spins him sideways.
"Kane!" I scream his name without thinking.
"I'm good!" He recovers, slams the fresh magazine home. "Keep that upload going!"
But we're being pushed back. Kessler's team is closing the distance, using the production equipment for cover, advancing in professional bounds that eat up the space between us. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Soon they'll be close enough to rush our position, and then it's over.
Ninety-five percent.
My pistol clicks empty. I drop the magazine, fumbling for a spare with shaking hands. Odin barks once, sharp and warning. Three of Kessler's men break from cover, sprinting toward us.
Kane pivots, dropping two with controlled pairs. The third keeps coming. Ten meters. Five.
I bring my pistol up with a fresh magazine seated, squeeze the trigger. The round catches the operative in the thigh. He goes down hard, weapon clattering away.
"Willa, you need to move!" Kane grabs my shoulder. "Upload or not, we can't hold this position!"
"Ten more seconds!" I watch the progress bar crawl forward with agonizing slowness.
Ninety-eight percent.
More operatives emerge from the smoke. Kessler's using the numbers advantage, throwing bodies at us faster than we can put them down. A grenade bounces across the floor, rolling toward our position.
"Frag out!" Kane kicks it away. It detonates near the assembly line, shrapnel pinging off metal. Chemical processors rupture, spilling Component A across the floor in a spreading pool.
The fumes make my eyes water even through the smoke. If Component B breaches now, if the two compounds mix, this entire facility becomes a death trap. We'd have maybe thirty seconds before respiratory paralysis.
Ninety-nine percent.
Kessler appears from behind cover, rifle leveled at Kane's head. "It's over."
Kane's eyes meet mine. One last look—connection and understanding and love all mixed together in a single heartbeat.
"I'm sorry," he says.
The upload completes. One hundred percent.
Kessler's finger tightens on the trigger.
The loading dock explodes.
Fire. Smoke. Screaming. The shockwave throws me sideways into the terminal.
Kessler staggers, his shot going wide. Kane pivots, brings his rifle up.
Odin yelps. My ears ring so loud I can't hear the gunfire anymore, but I can see muzzle flashes through the billowing smoke.
Kessler's men begin to scatter like rats.
I yank the drive free, shove it into my pocket. "Tommy, I've got the data! Package is secure!"
"Copy that!" Tommy's voice bursts through comms. "Get out of there!"
"Working on it!" Kane returns fire as Kessler's team recovers from the explosion. We're surrounded. Outnumbered. Out of time.
Kane empties his magazine into the advancing hostiles, buying us seconds. "We need to move!"
But there's nowhere to go. Kessler's team has every exit covered. We're trapped in the production facility with chemical weapons all around us, pinned down by superior numbers, running out of ammunition and options.
Kessler steps forward, weapon steady. In the emergency lighting, his face is a mask of cold satisfaction. This is what he wanted. This is what he's been planning.
"You can't win, Kane. Not this time. I made sure of it."