Chapter 26
NOAH
I came to in the water, cold and black, my lungs screaming like I’d been set ablaze.
For a moment, I was nowhere—head spinning, senses scrambled, the world a murky swirl of salt and pain.
My body thrashed, instinct taking over, and I broke the surface, gasping, choking on the Kiawah River’s bitter sting.
The night roared—gunfire cracking, death slicing through the dark, the air thick with smoke and the iron tang of blood.
Memory slammed back—Thumb Point, Department 77, the assault.
The missile.
My boat—gone, blown to splinters, my rifle with it, sunk to the river’s depths.
I treaded water, heart hammering, my ribs aching like they’d been cracked in half.
Scanned the dark, eyes stinging, and spotted two shapes bobbing nearby—Carter and Jace, clinging to a jagged chunk of debris, faces pale under the starlight.
“You okay?” I shouted, voice raw, swimming toward them through the current.
Carter grimaced, hand clamped on his thigh. “Shrapnel in the legs. Hurts like hell, but I’ll live.”
Jace coughed, spitting water. “I’m good. You?”
“Fine,” I lied, pain spiking with every breath, but I shoved it down. “We gotta move.”
The battle raged on the peninsula—muzzle flashes strobing through the treeline, shouts and explosions tearing the night apart.
My brothers were in there—Ryker pinned, Atlas closing, Marcus dropping from the sky—and I’d be damned if I let them fight without me.
I swam hard, arms slicing the water, eyes locked on the shore, the water and rising adrenaline numbing my wounds but not the fire in my chest.
A flicker caught my eye—parachutes, black against the stars, Marcus and his team descending like specters.
Hope flared, sharp and fleeting, but they dropped through the treeline, vanishing into the dark, and I was alone again, just me and the river’s pull.
My feet hit mud—shallow, solid—and I staggered up, water streaming off me, boots sinking into the mire.
My pistol was still holstered, a miracle, but my rifle was gone, leaving me half-naked for a fight like this.
The in-ear comms crackled, static slicing through—snippets of chaos, Ryker’s growl, Atlas’s calm orders, Marcus’s wild laugh.
I pressed the earpiece, voice low, urgent. “This is sniper, on the point, coming in from the river. Don’t shoot me.”
No reply—just more static, gunfire popping like a storm I was running toward.
I moved fast, crouched low, reeds brushing my legs, the ground sucking at my boots with every step.
First thing I saw was a body—Department 77, sprawled in the mud, throat gashed wide, eyes bulging and empty, blood pooling dark.
I dropped beside him, checked quick—automatic rifle, M4, still warm, three extra magazines in his vest.
Snagged the weapon, checked the chamber and the full magazine, the weight steadying me, and stuffed the mags in my pockets, my hands moving on muscle memory.
I ran toward the first house, where Ryker’s team had breached, the air thick with cordite, death, and the acrid bite of burning wood.
More bodies—scattered, broken, blood soaking the dirt like oil.
One was ours—Dom, a good man, half his head gone, blown open like a cleaver had split him.
My gut twisted, but I didn’t stop—couldn’t, not with the fight still alive, my brothers’ voices crackling through the comms.
“Pinned down,” Ryker barked, voice strained. “Taking heavy fire.”
“Closing from the southeast,” Atlas said, steady but tight. “Hold tight.”
Marcus’s laugh cut in, reckless, wild. “This is my kinda party!”
I sprinted, trees blurring, the house looming—a squat, modern slab, windows shattered, muzzle flashes strobing like a nightmare.
The comms cleared, voices sharp, and it was bad— Ryker’s team bleeding, Atlas too far, Marcus still cutting through the chaos.
I pressed my mic, breath ragged. “Sniper coming in from objective.”
“Get here,” Ryker snapped, gunfire drowning his words, a scream cutting through—ours or theirs, I couldn’t tell.
Two 77 guys burst from the shadows, running toward the fight, rifles pointed toward my brothers.
I dropped to a knee, aimed, fired—two quick bursts, heads snapping back, bodies crumpling before they knew I was there, blood misting the night.
Moved again, heart pounding, the M4 steady in my grip, the comms alive with voices—Ryker cursing, Atlas calling targets, Marcus whooping like a maniac.
I hit the house’s perimeter, ducked behind a low wall, and nearly ate a bullet—friendly fire, one of our guys, eyes wide as he recognized me.
“Noah—shit, sorry!” he shouted, waving me through, his face smeared with dirt and blood. He had his leg propped to one side, a hasty tourniquet wrapped around his thigh.
I vaulted the wall, ran past, and found Ryker—crouched behind a shattered column, blood streaming from a gash on his cheek, but grinning like he’d been born for this shit.
“Nice of you to show,” he said, popping off a shot, a 77 guy dropping across the yard, rifle skidding into the dirt.
“Fuck you,” I said, sliding in beside him, firing at a shadow creeping near the porch—another down, clean, his body folding like a ragdoll. “Thought you had this handled.”
He laughed, grim, ducking as a round cracked the column, chips flying. “Yeah, well, these assholes brought friends, and cousins.”
I glanced right, where Atlas’s team was supposed to be, and Ryker nodded that way. “He’s over there. Marcus just linked up with him. Crazy bastard’s having too much fun.”
“What’s the play?” I asked, firing again, dropping a guy who’d poked his head out too far, blood spraying the man behind him who ducked down in response.
Ryker leaned in, voice low, just for me. “Shoulda brought more men. Whatever 77’s got here—stockpile, armory, fuckin’ army—they keep pouring out like roaches. Basement’s a clown car.”
I checked my mag—half-full, two spares—and fired at another shadow, his scream cut short as he fell. “Call it, Ryker.”
His eyes met mine, hard, knowing, the weight of it settling between us. “All out. No holding back.”
I nodded, decision made—same breath, same blood, like we’d been forged for this moment.
“New plan,” Ryker said into the comms, voice sharp. “All out, ten seconds. On my mark. Hit ‘em hard, boys.”
“Copy,” Atlas said, calm as stone, gunfire popping through his line.
“Let’s fucking go!” Marcus added, his glee slicing the static, wild and unhinged.
I braced, counting down in my head, the M4 steady, my pulse a war drum in my ears.
Ryker said, “Mark.”
Ten.
The night was alive—gunfire, shouts, the air thick with smoke, blood, and the stench of adrenaline.
Nine.
Eight.
Hallie Mae’s face flashed—her eyes, blue and fierce, her voice, “Come back to me,” and my chest burned, the promise I’d made a chain I’d drag through hell.
Seven.
Six.
I pictured her in my bed, her skin soft under my hands, her love pinning me to a wall and making me pay attention.
Five.
Four.
The ground shook—an explosion, close, dirt raining down, and I ducked, heart slamming, the fight tightening around us like a noose.
Three.
Two—
The comms crackled, Elias’s voice bursting through, urgent, sharp. “Merry Christmas, motherfuckers.”
Ryker froze, finger off the trigger, eyes flicking to me. “The fuck, Elias?”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Elias said, voice light. “Incoming?—”
Before he could finish, the sky roared—blackhawks and little birds, a squadron tearing through the night, blades chopping like thunder, their shadows swallowing the peninsula.
A loudspeaker blared, cold, final: “Department 77, lay down your weapons. This is your only warning.”
The aircraft hovered, their floodlights cutting the dark, pinning 77’s men like rats.
Some complied—rifles clattering to the ground, hands up, fear breaking their ranks, faces pale in the harsh light.
Others didn’t—fools, firing up at the birds, muzzle flashes sparking like desperate stars.
The response was apocalyptic—miniguns roaring, a thunderous barrage shredding the night, rounds tearing through men, walls, earth.
Spent casings rained down, pinging off the dirt, the rooftops, a metallic hail that drowned out everything.
I shielded my eyes, the air vibrating, ground shaking, as 77’s holdouts were obliterated—bodies dropping, blood misting, the house’s facade splintering into dust.
Then—quiet.
Not silence, not yet—the choppers hummed, rotors slowing, the wounded groaned, but the gunfire stopped, the fight snuffed out like a match in a storm.
I stood, slow, M4 still raised, scanning the wreckage—bodies strewn like broken dolls, debris smoking, the peninsula a graveyard under the stars.
Ryker clapped my shoulder, blood smeared on his grin, eyes wild but alive. “It’s over.”
I nodded, chest heaving, the weight crashing in—we’d survived the meat grinder, the trap, the missile that’d nearly ended me.
Hallie Mae’s face flashed before me—her trust, her love, the promise I’d kept, against every bullet, every odd.
I pressed my comms, voice rough, throat raw. “Elias, you still there?”
“Still here,” he said, relief thick. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said, looking at Ryker, at the choppers landing now, their blades kicking up dust. “We’re good.”
We rounded up the Department 77 stragglers as the CIA air armada watched. By the time all was said and done, we’d lost three men with another five wounded. Department 77’s final death toll was twenty two, with another dozen bound and hooded so the Agency could deal with them however they liked.
When the mess was finally settled, and I stood in the middle of the road watching the birds fly home as Marcus regaled my brothers with stories of his exploits, I had one thought and one thought only: Hallie Mae. I needed to see Hallie Mae.