6. Jon
SIX
Jon
Razor doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe loud enough to hear. Just murmurs?—
“On your call, Delta-Three.”
He’s not a man anymore. He’s a weapon. Silent, still, and waiting for the signal to detonate.
“Reading you five-by-five,” Blaze crackles in over comms. “Storm’s already mapped the building. Three possible entries, two weak load-bearing walls. Kid’s got a gift for structural analysis.”
“Don’t call me kid,” Storm cuts in. “I’ve blown up more buildings than you’ve digested brain cells.”
I catch the grin tugging at Razor’s mouth—but only for a heartbeat. Then it’s gone, and all that’s left is the steady arc of his scope sweeping the window line.
“We’re in position at the south entrance,” Blaze says. “On your go, Jon.”
I inhale once. Sharp. Grounding.
“Delta moving in three—two—one… Execute.”
My finger taps the comm switch, and we flow.
Razor moves like water over stone—quiet, smooth, lethal. There’s no tension, no wasted energy. Just precision. The kind that isn’t learned through training. It comes from surviving shit no one should’ve lived through.
He ghosts through the breach point ahead of me, rifle up, eyes cutting through shadow. No hesitation. No fear.
Only purpose.
What follows is twenty minutes of flawless rhythm.
Razor’s not just good—he’s scary good. We don’t speak.
Don’t need to. His pace matches mine without lag, without anticipation—just pure, instinctive sync.
When I pivot right, he’s already watching my six.
When I drop to one knee behind cover, he shifts elevation, angling for a better shot window.
It’s like running point with a guy I’ve trained with for years.
Hand signals, head tilts, sharp nods—everything lands without a hiccup. We sweep and clear methodically, converging on the interior of the warehouse structure where Blaze and Storm already hold position. The space smells like old oil and dust—fake smoke from the sim-rounds clings to the air.
“Two tangos down,” Blaze reports, jerking his chin at the splattered training dummies, center mass tagged in tight blue groupings.
“No visual on the asset,” Storm adds, crouched by a stack of crates, eyes scanning. His rifle is angled low, but his posture says ready.
“Third hostile’s probably guarding them.” I flatten against the doorway, motioning Razor to cover the opposite angle. My pulse ticks higher. Something’s off. “Feels like a setup.”
Razor slides into position, rifle steady, eyes sweeping the corridor ahead. “It is. Your team leader set this up to fail. She thinks like me.”
Right on cue, Mac’s hulking silhouette appears at the far end of the hallway, shield raised like a battering ram. Jenny’s behind him, flanking left, already laying down suppressive fire. Sim-rounds crack through the corridor, blue paint spattering against the cinderblock walls and floor.
“Back exit!” I bark, diving behind a steel support column as a round kisses past my cheek and explodes against the concrete.
“This way!” Storm doesn’t hesitate.
He barrels into a maintenance room, his shoulder slamming into the push bar. The metal door groans open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit service tunnel lined with exposed pipes and utility conduits.
“Service corridor leads to the basement,” Storm calls back, breath controlled but urgent. “Saw it on the floor plan earlier. Could be a secondary hold.”
Razor signals me forward—go—and drops back into rear cover with Blaze. I pass the word with a clipped gesture, and we file in, single line, fast and tight. Sim-rounds pepper the frame as Blaze steps through last, snapping the door shut behind him.
“Nice pull,” Blaze mutters, clapping Storm on the shoulder. “Mac hates the basement routes. Gets twitchy.”
“I heard that,” Mac’s voice grumbles through comms. “And it’s called tactical awareness, not claustrophobia.”
The corridor narrows, light flickering from a busted overhead bulb. Our boots crunch on gravel and debris as we press forward. The smell of damp concrete and machine oil thickens. Sound echoes weirdly down here—everything sharper, like the air’s listening.
Then I see it. Far wall, behind a scaffold of rusted pipes and stacked crates—a yellow vest, unmistakable against the gray.
“Our hostage,” I murmur.
Razor doesn’t ease his stance. If anything, he coils tighter, scanning every shadow like it’s about to strike.
“This is wrong,” he says, voice low and flat. “Too exposed. Too easy.”
“Jenny doesn’t make mistakes like this,” I agree, raising my rifle. “She’s waiting for us to blink.”
And I don’t plan on giving her the chance.
As if summoned by Razor’s unease, a soft metallic clink cuts through the quiet. Something rolls across the cracked concrete between us, slow and deliberate.
My brain processes it a second too late.
“Flash-bang!” Blaze shouts?—
—but Storm’s already airborne.
He dives without hesitation, covering the sim-grenade with his vest, curling around it like a human shield. The pop is muffled, more of a puff of compressed air and a cloud of chalk dust than a real detonation—but the instinct?
Flawless. No pause. No calculation. Just action.
I blink through the haze, adrenaline spiking in my bloodstream like a jolt of electricity.
That could’ve blinded all of us.
Storm stands, white dust clinging to his front like frost. His expression doesn’t shift, doesn’t falter—just that same dry deadpan.
“Hate being blinded,” he mutters, brushing chalk off his gear. “Makes it hard to see the people I’m about to shoot.”
Blaze lets out a low whistle. “Remind me never to startle you.”
From there, the op wraps with surgical precision. Razor and I secure the asset dummy—vest intact, no paint hits—while Storm clears the last room and Blaze covers our six. The only hit comes when Blaze gets cocky, slicing the pie wide and catching a red round to the shoulder.
“Still pretty,” he mutters, wincing as we haul ass to the extraction point.
We regroup at the edge of the training field, sweat slick beneath my vest, lungs still working to settle after the final sprint. Jenny’s already waiting near the debrief tent, arms crossed, hair pulled back tight, expression unreadable—except for the spark of satisfaction in her eyes.
She watches us silently for a beat. Letting the weight of the moment land.
“Solid work,” she says finally. “Times were sharp. Communications tighter than I expected for a first run. Combat skills? Excellent. You followed the mission parameters. You adapted when the scenario flipped.”
She takes a step forward, gaze flicking between Razor and Storm.
“But Delta team isn’t just about tactical proficiency. We’re more than a team. We’re a family. Dysfunctional, sometimes. Messy as hell. But blood-deep.”
Mac snorts. “The question isn’t whether you can shoot straight. It’s whether you’re looking for a job…” He looks between them. “Or something more.”
Storm shifts beside Razor. There’s a flicker—something vulnerable beneath the iron. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just meets Razor’s eyes.
Then he speaks. Quiet. Measured.
“After Kabul… After everything we lost…” His voice rasps, unpolished. “We’re not here for a paycheck.”
Razor nods once. “We’re here for purpose. For connection. For a reason to fight that doesn’t get erased by a politician’s pen.”
Jenny studies them both, reading between the lines like she always does. Then she turns to Mac.
“In?”
Mac grunts. “They think. They shoot. They listen. Works for me.”
“Blaze?” Jenny turns to Blaze.
He shrugs, smirking. “They’ll do.”
High praise, from him.
And then her eyes land on me.
“Jon?”
I don’t hesitate. Not for a second.
“They’re in.”
Jenny nods once. “Razor, Delta-Five. Storm, Delta-Six.”
Blaze steps forward, extending a hand to each of them in turn.
“Welcome to Delta.” A beat, then that irreverent grin. “Try not to die. The paperwork’s a bitch.”
After debriefing and processing, we head to the mess hall. Guardian HRS’s food puts military bases to shame—Forest believes in feeding his people well. Our table in the corner has been Delta’s unofficial territory for years, and the new guys follow without needing direction.
“So,” Storm loads his plate with an impressive mountain of pasta, “what’s the deal with Guardian HRS anyway? Private company running paramilitary rescue operations doesn’t exactly scream ‘normal business model.’ Forest Summers started it?”
“More like created it. He and Doc Summers.” I dive into my chili mac, best on the planet.
“Forest and Doc Summers are foster siblings,” I explain, noting their surprised expressions.
“Started Guardian HRS initially to rescue kids from abusive foster situations like they experienced. Expanded into human trafficking operations, then broadened further into all types of extractions.”
“Forest is…” Blaze pauses, searching for words. “Different. Brilliant doesn’t cover it. Self-made billionaire before eighteen, but operates on another level than the rest of us mere mortals. Savant-level smart, but his interpersonal skills are a bit off.”
“You’ll meet Mitzy soon,” Jenny adds. “Head of tech division. You can’t miss her. She’s a bundle of chaos and changes her hair color weekly. Right now it’s neon purple with green tips. Genius with drones and surveillance tech. She’s behind the RUFI units and the bumblebee drones.”
“She’s wicked smart. Not as smart as Forest,” Blaze clarifies, “but nobody is.”
“How’s that?” Razor asks, his plate modestly filled.
“Let’s just say there’s nothing normal about Forest or Doc Summers,” Mac answers around a mouthful of garlic bread. “But they pay well, and they don’t ask us to do anything we wouldn’t be proud of. Better than government work.”
Storm looks intrigued. “What about the actual operations? How do you decide who to help?”
“No politicians deciding which lives matter based on polling numbers.” Blaze’s voice holds an edge that speaks of past experience. “If someone needs help and they can reach us, we go. Simple as that.”