CHAPTER 6 #2
I kneel beside the body, my breathing perfectly controlled.
One down. Seven to go.
I quickly search his tactical vest. I find two spare magazines, a combat knife, and a small, encrypted radio clipped to his shoulder strap. A wire runs from the radio up to an earpiece tucked under his helmet.
I pull the earpiece out of his ear and press it into my own.
The comms channel is open, filled with the faint static of encrypted radio traffic.
"Bravo Two, status," a deep, rough voice says through the earpiece. The accent is heavy, Eastern European.
I remain completely silent, kneeling in the dark hallway, staring at the open door of the mudroom.
"Bravo Two, report," the voice repeats. There is a pause. "Movement on the south perimeter. Alpha team is in position at the glass. Bravo Two, if the mudroom is clear, breach the interior."
They are splitting their forces. Four men on the glass, four men on the rear doors.
"Listen up," the leader’s voice crackles over the comms again, his tone shifting from tactical to authoritative. "The contract parameters are confirmed by the syndicate. The fixer is a burn target. Put him down on sight. Do not engage in conversation. Do not attempt to capture."
I press two fingers against the earpiece, ensuring I catch every word.
"The girl is priority," the leader continues. "She has the drive. The boss wants the encryption keys, and she is the only one who can provide them. Take her alive."
A cold, sharp spike of anger hits the base of my skull.
"Use non-lethal if you have to," the voice commands. "But if she fights, you break her legs. The boss doesn't care if she can walk. He only cares if she has her fingers attached so she can type the password. Secure the asset, kill the fixer, and burn the house."
The radio clicks off, returning to static.
I slowly lower my hand from my ear.
I look at the dead man on the floor. I look at the open door, where the moonlight is spilling across the floor tiles.
My heart rate, which has been perfectly steady since the power went out, suddenly spikes. It isn't fear. It isn't adrenaline.
It is pure, unadulterated rage.
I have operated in the criminal underworld for eight years.
I know what these men do to people they capture.
I know what a syndicate interrogation room looks like.
They don't just want the drive. They want to rip the information out of her mind, piece by piece, until there is nothing left of that sarcastic, chaotic woman but a broken shell.
They want to break her legs. They want to take her fingers.
The mental image of Gemma—the woman who complained about the lack of sugar in my coffee, who wore my oversized hoodie because she was cold—screaming in a warehouse somewhere, shatters the last remaining wall of my professional detachment.
I reach down and pull the combat knife from the dead man’s vest. The blade is six inches of matte-black steel.
I slide my Glock back into my holster. I don't need the gun right now. Guns are loud. Guns draw attention.
I am going to dismantle this team piece by piece in the dark.
I step over the body and walk toward the open mudroom door. The cold wind hits my face, carrying the scent of pine and impending rain.
I press the transmit button on the stolen radio clipped to my chest.
I don't try to mimic the dead man’s voice. I use my own. Low, calm, and entirely lethal.
"This is Reed," I say into the microphone.
The radio channel goes dead silent. I can almost feel the shock rippling through the tactical teams outside.
"You are currently trespassing on my property," I continue, stepping out of the mudroom and into the deep shadows of the back porch. "You have exactly thirty seconds to return to your vehicles and leave the grid."
"Reed," the leader’s voice comes back, laced with a dark, mocking laugh. "You’re surrounded, mate. We have eight rifles pointed at your glass house. Hand over the girl, and maybe I’ll put a bullet in your head instead of your gut."
I grip the handle of the combat knife, feeling the perfect balance of the steel.
"I am not negotiating," I say softly into the radio. "I am giving you a warning."
"Warning rejected," the leader snarls. "Alpha team, light it up."
"Understood," I reply.
I drop the radio onto the wooden deck and crush it under the heel of my boot.
The glass of the living room windows explodes.
The sound is deafening—a massive, shattering roar as concentrated automatic fire rips through the ballistic polycarbonate. The heavy metal shutters absorb the brunt of the impact, but the noise echoes through the valley like thunder.
They are firing at the empty living room, trying to force me into cover.
They don't realize I am already outside.
I slip off the porch, dropping into the thick brush that lines the edge of the property. The darkness swallows me completely. I move with absolute silence, flanking the tree line, tracking the muzzle flashes of the Alpha team firing at the house.
They came here to hunt a target.
They are about to learn why the syndicate used to pay me five million dollars to make their nightmares disappear.
I find the first shooter kneeling behind a large oak tree, his rifle still trained on the shattered windows. He is focused entirely on the house. He doesn't check his six.
I step out of the shadows behind him.
He never even hears me breathe.