Chapter Fifteen #3
The atmosphere in the room made it clear.
Comms traffic overlapped in controlled fragments, voices crossing as men relayed updates faster than protocol would normally allow.
The map had been altered since our last pass—fresh grease pencil cutting through established lines, sectors redrawn, boundaries pushed outward in a pattern that suggested pressure rather than containment.
“Brooks, get the Maddoxes up to speed,” Marcel ordered without looking up.
“North perimeter took a hit,” Brooks answered. “Not a probe. Full push. They came in fast, heavy, and coordinated.”
“How many?” Thomas asked.
“More than we planned for at this stage,” Marcel said, disgust in his tone. “Where in the blue fuck would a podunk mafia out of Sin City get this many fighting men?”
I stepped forward. “I predict there are even more than you think. They didn’t build this; they paid for it. This seems like Yakuza backing—manpower, structure, and discipline. Vegas doesn’t field numbers like this on its own.”
Marcel finally looked up, glancing at Brooks and then Jones before making eye contact with me, nearly impressed. “Meaning?”
“They staged it, sir,” I answered. “The main force will hold back while smaller units probe your defenses. They’re not trying to win the initial contacts. They’re measuring response time, positioning, and firepower. Typical Yakuza tactics.”
Marcel considered that, and then a slow grin crept across his face. “Good. Let’s give those bastards the fight they came for.”
Gunfire cracked outside, and then more, the voices over the radios coming in even faster than before. A loud boom rolled across the compound in a staggered wave, carrying through the walls and into the floor beneath our feet.
Marcel’s eyes sharpened as he looked to Jones. “The Devil just knocked on my door, Jones.”
Jones saluted him. “And we’ll answer, sir.”
Jones turned to leave just as Naomi pushed her way through. “General, they’ve brought heavier assets forward. We’re seeing equipment we didn’t have eyes on before.”
“So I hear,” Marcel said, looking over the map. “Give me placement.”
“Here,” she said, pushing her finger to a point just beyond the perimeter on the east side.
Marcel looked to the men on radios. “Counter-battery. I want those assets gone before they fire again. Lock sectors. I want eyes on those positions.”
“Yes, sir.” The responses came tight, immediate, each man already relaying.
Naomi moved to break away. Her father caught her sleeve between two fingers, just enough to stop her.
“Sir?” she asked, pausing.
He gave a short nod, followed by a quick, clipped wink. Her mouth pressed thin, almost a smile, then she pulled free and moved out.
After watching his daughter clear the room, he squared his shoulders.
“Maddox. I want coverage on every quadrant. Spenser is at the west gate, Kansas is on South Tower, Jones east quad, Naomi north. Pick your poison, you’ll fall under them.
Arm up with something scarier than your sidearms on your way out. ”
Thomas turned toward us. “Travis, you take the west quad with Spenser. Trent, you’re with him.
Taylor, Tyler, east with Jones. Abby, Liis, rendezvous with Kansas at South Tower, it’s closest to the bunker.
I’ve got north. And listen, no hero shit.
We’re support only. Our families are back in the bunker waiting for us to come home. Remember that.”
“Copy,” Travis said, already heading for the door.
We pushed outside, and the world hit all at once. The air carried heat and grit, the distant crack of outgoing fire threading through the dark. Another blast followed from the same direction, brighter this time, throwing embers and debris into the air.
Travis turned to Abby. “This is the real deal, Pidge. You should head back to the bunker.”
“I’ll go if they breach the fences,” she said, staring up at him. “I promise.”
His jaws flexed as he thought and then nodded once, clearly against his every instinct.
Weapons were already being handed off just beyond the entrance of Command. A line of militia moved with purpose, passing rifles, mags, and vests without pause. I took what was shoved into my hands, checked the weight, the chamber, the extra mags secured at my side.
Abby shook her head. “I don’t know how to handle one of those things.”
“You’ve gotta have something,” Travis said. “You can’t be out here empty handed.”
I pulled my sidearm from its holster. “This?”
Abby nodded, taking it from me and slipping it behind her into her waistband.
“Holy shit,” Trenton said, scanning the glowing sky as another echo rolled through the compound. “This is for real.”
“Move!” Thomas’s voice carried over it. “Stay low!”
We broke in different directions, heads down, tracking the sky between steps, watching for anything incoming.
“Not you.” Thomas’s hand caught my collar, pulling me back just as I started to follow Abby south. His mouth found mine, quick and hard, all urgency and no hesitation. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to mine. “Stay alive.”
“You too,” I said. “See you soon.”
He nodded once, already stepping away, then turned and ran.
I pulled Abby with me, scanning as we moved south, checking every shape against the cut and color of militia fatigues.
Sound wasn’t something I could track anymore.
It stacked and folded in on itself, too much of it to separate cleanly.
Automatic fire snapped in disciplined bursts near the gate, heavier weapons answering in slower, concussive intervals that carried through the ground.
Rounds struck metal and concrete with a hard, ringing deflection, close enough to place without looking.
Voices cut through it all in fragments—orders, names, directions. Nothing held long, carried off almost as soon as it was spoken.
Soldiers ran past in both directions, some toward the perimeter, some dragging wounded back toward cover.
A man stumbled five feet in front of me, dropped hard, and was pulled by his vest by someone who didn’t stop moving long enough to check whether he was dead or alive.
Dust kicked up under boots, thick enough that the grit and metal caught in my throat.
I brought my breathing under control, forcing my pulse to follow until the noise resolved into something I could sort.
A few minutes later, I spotted the southern watchtower.
It was just within sprinting distance of the bunker, slightly offset from the main line, elevated with clear sightlines over the approaches.
Kansas stood at the top, pointing with her free hand as she issued orders, night vision binos in the other, an impressive rifle slung over her shoulder.
I understood then. Thomas hadn’t sent us toward the fight.
He’d placed us where we could see it coming and still fall back if we had to.
The rounds coming from the north, where Thomas was sprinting toward, weren’t random.
The point of impact had pattern and intent, controlled bursts advancing in waves instead of the erratic spray of untrained shooters I’d hoped for.
The Carlisis had brought people who knew what they were doing.
I angled toward the tower, adjusting my path to stay behind the line of vehicles parked along the inner yard.
A stray round struck a truck just ahead of us, the windshield cracking in a fast, spreading web before collapsing inward.
The impact cracked through the yard, sharp and concussive, forcing a half-step check in my stride before I pushed through it.
I reached for Abby, grabbing her just as she stumbled.
“You good?” I asked, loud enough to be heard over the noise.
She wiped her hair from her face and nodded. “Yeah,” she said with labored breath. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go.”
I dropped lower and moved faster, pulling Abby along and keeping her close.
We reached the base of the tower and I grabbed the railing, hauling myself up the first set of steps two at a time.
The metal vibrated under my boots with each impact below, the structure taking the force and translating it upward through my hands.
Halfway up, a round clipped the outer frame with a sharp, hollow clang.
“Shit!” Abby cried out, ducking and covering her head with her arms.
I pressed in against the inner support and pulled Abby in with me, guiding her into the angle of the structure where it offered the most cover, keeping her tight to the beam as I adjusted our position.
“That was close,” I said with a nervous laugh. “But they weren’t aiming for us.”
“I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.”
I offered an apologetic smile. “We have to keep going. Ready?”
She nodded.
I eased us back into motion and pushed to finish the climb, keeping her just ahead of me as we closed the last stretch.
Finally at the top, I let my bag fall to the wood plank flooring and gestured for Abby to do the same.
The ladder opened onto a narrow walkway circling a small, enclosed room, the outer edge lined with nearly chest-high metal—waist-high for the men or women taller than me— and nothing but open air beyond it.
A .50 cal was fixed to the tower mount, manned just minutes ago but was now empty, the weapon angled toward the north but unattended.
A smear of blood marked the edge of the railing, dark and fresh.
Kansas’s binos hung from a nail next to the stain.