Chapter 17 #2
He used the time to scout, to plan, to become intimate with every shadow and sight line. When the guards appeared, two men with rifles slung casually and talking in Spanish about a soccer match, he let them pass within ten feet. They were completely unaware of the predator crouched in the darkness.
The moment they rounded the corner, he moved.
Fifty meters covered in thirty seconds. He reached the generator building and pressed his ear against the wall, listening. No alarms. No shouts. Just the endless hum of machinery and the distant sound of music from the barracks.
Clear, he thought to himself. His training kicked in hard.
Con’s voice came low over the coms, “Thermal shows minimal activity in your sector. Most guards are concentrated around the main house.”
Where Willow was. Where Morales was. Con didn’t need to say it. They both knew it.
Levi circled the generator building, found the access panel, and opened it with a penknife. Inside were industrial generators, fuel tanks, and electrical distribution. The compound's entire power supply, vulnerable and accessible.
He pulled out his first shaped charge and began setting it. Not for immediate detonation—for later, when he needed chaos. When he needed every light in this compound to go dark.
“Charge one placed,” he reported. “Moving to secondary position.”
“Berserker, be advised—thermal signature appeared in the basement of the main house. Three bodies, one prone. That's probably—”
“Willow.” The name came out rough. “She's in the basement.”
“Affirmative. Two guards are stationed outside the cell door. But Levi, there's another signature moving toward the basement. Body temp and size consistent with a big male.”
“Morales.” Ice flooded Levi's veins. “He's going to interrogate her.”
“Unknown. But the timing suggests—”
“How long ago did he enter the basement?”
“Ninety seconds.”
Ninety seconds. Morales had been with Willow for ninety seconds. Asking questions. Making demands. Hurting her when she didn't answer.
The ice in Levi's veins crystallized into something colder than rage. Something precise. Surgical.
“Change of plans,” he said, already moving toward the main house. “I'm not waiting. I'm going in now.”
“Negative! Levi, you can't—”
“She doesn't have any more time, Con. She doesn't.” He was running now, staying low, using vehicles and equipment for cover. “You can either help me or get out of the way.”
Silence. Then, “Goddammit. All right. All right.”
“Appreciated. What's between me and the main house?”
“Six guards, two vehicles, multiple camera angles. You'll need a diversion.”
“I've got a diversion.” Levi reached the armory, which was a smaller building near the barracks. Pulling out C-4, he began shaping a charge. “Tell me when those guards on the basement door move.”
“Levi—”
“Tell me when they move, Con. Because I'm going through that door whether they're there or not.”
More silence. Then Con's voice, resigned but professional: “Copy that. Monitoring thermal now. And Levi? Phantom's pushing as fast as they can. ETA hasn’t changed.”
“Tell him to bring an Angel if the team has one. Willow's going to need a medic.”
“Already done. Now, finish setting that charge before someone sees you.”
Levi placed the C-4 with practiced efficiency and wired it to a remote detonator. Then he moved to the fuel depot. He had vehicles, drums of diesel, and everything that would burn beautiful and bright.
Another charge. Another future explosion waiting to happen.
“In position,” he reported. “Standing by for your call.”
“Roger. Guards are still at the basement door. Wait … thermal spike in the basement. Elevated activity. Multiple heat signatures moving.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means—” Con's voice went tight. “Levi, I'm picking up audio. The guards' radio frequency is open. Do you want me to—”
“Patch it through.”
Static. Then voices in Spanish. And underneath them, barely audible but unmistakable:
Willow. Screaming.
The sound cut through Levi like a blade. He was hit with hot and cold at once, fury and fear mixed into something that threatened to overwhelm every tactical consideration.
“I'm going,” he said, voice flat. Dead. “Now.”
“Levi, wait—”
He triggered both charges.
The fuel depot went up first. A massive fireball that climbed into the night sky, turning darkness to noon-bright daylight. The blast wave hit him seconds later, hot and violent, rattling his bones.
Then the armory exploded—smaller but more spectacular. Ammunition cooking off, bullets firing in every direction, tracer rounds drawing lines of fire across the compound.
Chaos. Beautiful, chaos.
Guards poured from the barracks, shouting, confused, trying to coordinate through compromised communications. Some ran toward the fires. Others took defensive positions, expecting an assault.
No one was looking at the main house.
Levi moved like smoke through the confusion, staying low, using fire-cast shadows for cover. He reached the main house, found a side entrance, and breached it with a small, shaped charge that was more focused pressure than explosion.
The door blew inward. Alarms screamed. But between the fires and the ammunition cooking off, no one heard.
He was inside.
And Morales had just made the last mistake of his life.
The main house interior was surprisingly elegant. Expensive furniture, art on the walls, the trappings of wealth built on suffering. Levi moved through it like a predator, weapon up, clearing rooms with practiced efficiency.
Two guards appeared at the end of a hallway. He dropped both with suppressed shots before they could raise their rifles. He kept moving.
“Basement access, northeast corner,” Con said in his ear. “But, Levi, thermal shows four more guards converging on your position. They know you're inside.”
“Let them fucking come.”
He found the basement door. It was heavy, reinforced, and locked from the inside. He planted his last shaped charge, stood back, and triggered it.
The door exploded inward, metal shrapnel peppering the hallway. Levi descended into smoke and darkness, following the stairs down.
The basement was exactly as Con had described. It was converted mining offices, with four cells with guards at the far end. Weapons were drawn, but they hesitated, waiting to identify their target.
Levi shot them. Center mass. Professional. No hesitation.
They went down, and he was moving before their bodies hit the floor, racing toward the cell at the end of the corridor.
Levi hit the cell door with his shoulder. It didn't budge. The fucker was reinforced, locked from the inside.
Voices inside. Spanish. Angry. And underneath it, Willow's voice could be heard as she growled, weak and defiant, “Go to hell.”
Levi stepped back, raised his weapon, and put three rounds through the door's lock mechanism. Metal shrieked. The lock exploded, and he kicked the door open.