Chapter Four
Hell. They were sitting ducks. Exposed, pinned, and with three—no, make that four—rifles aimed straight at them. Gage could see the faint glint of night-vision lenses, the slow, precise tilt of muzzles tracking upward.
He squeezed as much of himself as he could onto the thirteen or so inches of space on the beam, the metal biting cold through his clothes, his lungs dragging in smoke-thick air.
He’d never spent much time wondering where he’d die.
A battlefield, maybe. Some nameless stretch of sand or dirt halfway across the world.
But a rafter, thirty feet above a birthday party, surrounded by fairy lights and frosting, that one hadn’t crossed his mind.
Below, one of the gunmen adjusted his aim. Another stepped back, signaling something. Gage’s muscles coiled, ready for whatever came next, even though there was nowhere to go.
Then the world split open with a blast of sound.
A deafening, metallic wail tore through the hangar. Louder than gunfire, a screeching feedback that made his teeth ache. For a second, Gage thought something had exploded. The attackers flinched, several dropping to a crouch, their weapons wavering.
It took Gage a heartbeat to spot the source. Owen, across the hangar, half-hidden behind a steel pillar. The man had a bullhorn in hand, pressed to his mouth, and he was letting it scream a wall of static that drowned out everything else.
A distraction.
Gage’s chest tightened with a whole lot of relief. Trust Owen to turn chaos into an opening.
He glanced over his shoulder, caught Rena’s eye and jerked his chin toward the next beam over. If they were going to move, this was the only window they’d get.
Two of the gunmen snapped their attention toward the sound of the bullhorn, rifles swinging in unison. The air was still vibrating with the feedback, the pitch high enough to rattle Gage’s teeth. He could barely hear his own breath over it.
Then, just as the first of the gunmen fired toward Owen’s position, another noise ripped through the hangar. A metallic whine, sharp and fast. Gage squinted through the haze, trying to make sense of the movement above the smoke.
Something was flying toward the gunmen.
No, not something. Two somethings.
Flaming silhouettes shot across the hangar on a cable line, leaving trails of sparks and smoke in their wake. For a disorienting second, Gage thought they were people, until the shapes tilted and he realized what they were.
Dummies.
Owen had rigged the training mannequins, set them on fire, and sent them hurtling down a zipline that cut straight through the center of the chaos.
The attackers shouted, ducking instinctively as the burning forms streaked toward them.
The smell of scorched fabric and melted plastic filled the air.
One of the gunmen panicked and opened fire, bullets tearing through a dummy in a spray of embers.
The flames flared brighter, blinding them all for a split second.
Owen used it.
From his position behind a steel support, he rose in one smooth motion, sighted in, and fired.
The crack of his shot cut clean through the noise.
One of the gunmen jerked back, dropped hard, motionless.
The others scrambled for cover, shouting orders, disoriented by fire, smoke, and the shrieking feedback still pouring from the bullhorn.
Gage felt the shift, the moment the fight tipped, however briefly, in their favor. He looked back at Rena, their faces both lit by the dull orange glow below.
“Now,” he mouthed.
Whatever came next, they had seconds to move before hell found them again.
Smoke rolled across the hangar in dirty waves, thick with burning rubber and melted plastic. The air burned Gage’s throat as he moved on the beam, eyes scanning for movement through the haze. Below, the two flaming dummies swung wildly, their cables snapping and sparking against the steel rigging.
Then another fire caught. A deep, orange surge that spread low along the floor.
Noah.
He moved from cover on the far side, half-limping, half-running, shoving something with all his strength. Tires—training props from the obstacle course—each one burning hot, rolling end over end toward the gunmen. The flames clung to the rubber, spitting oily smoke that thickened fast.
The attackers shouted, breaking formation. One stumbled back as a tire veered into a stack of crates and exploded into a cloud of black soot. Another took a knee to fire, but Noah was already ducking behind a support beam, smoke curling around him like a shroud.
Gage and Rena kept moving, but his stomach was in knots now. He couldn’t see Lily anywhere. For a moment, fear gripped him cold, but then he caught sight of a flicker of light in the chaos. Near the birthday table.
The candles.
A cluster of tiny lights blinked and flashed, drawing the attackers’ eyes.
It took him a second to realize what she’d done.
Lily had torn the string of twinkle lights from the decorations and looped them around one of the wheeled training mannequins.
The figure jerked forward on its stand, glowing and jerking as if someone were trying to flee through the smoke.
It worked.
The gunmen turned toward the motion, shouting over each other. One opened fire on the decoy, bullets pinging harmlessly off metal and plastic.
That got Rena and him moving even faster. They scrambled along the beam, moving fast but low. Smoke hid their movement, and the strobing light from Lily’s trick gave them cover. A few stray rounds punched into the rafters near their feet, sparks showering down.
But Owen and Noah kept firing, drawing the attackers’ attention, giving them those precious seconds.
By the time they reached the far end of the rafters, Gage’s lungs were raw from smoke, and his shoulder screamed in protest. But they’d made it, still alive, still fighting.
And below, chaos reigned.
Fires, smoke, and a teenager’s quick thinking had turned the hangar into a war zone that the attackers couldn’t control.
Rena and Gage hit the floor hard, boots slipping in a mix of soot and debris.
His shoulder throbbed even more, and each movement sent a white-hot spike of pain through the joint.
He clenched his teeth, ignored it, forced his legs to move.
Rena was beside him, still moving fast, but when the light caught her arm, he saw the dark streak of blood down her sleeve.
“Rena—” Gage managed to say.
“Keep moving,” she hissed, her voice tight.
No time to argue. The hangar was a storm of noise and chaos. Smoke thick enough to choke, gunfire echoing from somewhere near the loading bay. They cut across the floor, keeping low behind scattered crates, making for Owen’s position near a stack of old training mats.
Gage risked a glance up.
And froze.
A mountain of a man stepped from the shadows near the central pillar, his rifle raised. He was easily six-five, bulked up in full combat gear, the kind that turned human shapes into tanks. The muzzle of his weapon tracked toward them.
Gage’s Glock was gone. His shoulder was shot. The math wasn’t in his favor.
His eyes landed on the nearest object. A battered laser-tag gun. Without hesitation, he grabbed it.
“Hey!” Gage barked, stepping out just enough to draw the man’s attention.
The rifle twitched toward him. Gage hurled the laser gun as hard as he could. It spun end over end, smacking into the attacker’s shoulder with a dull thunk.
The man ducked, instinctively, half a second of reaction. And that was all Gage needed.
He charged.
Gage slammed into the guy, momentum and desperation doing the rest. The impact knocked the breath out of him. He hit the ground hard, the weight of the bigger man crashing down on his chest.
And the guy sure as hell didn’t stay still. He moved like a freight train. Fast, brutal, trained. A knee slammed into Gage’s ribs, and stars burst behind his eyes. He shoved back, twisting, but the man was all muscle and momentum.
The attacker swung, his gloved fist catching Gage across the jaw. Pain detonated along his face. Gage countered, driving an elbow into the man’s side. It barely made a dent. The bastard grunted, shifted, and tried to pin Gage’s arms.
Adrenaline and instinct took over. Gage rolled, using the man’s weight to his advantage, half-crawling, half-dragging them both across the floor. His bad shoulder screamed as he fought to get leverage. The stink of sweat, smoke, and burning rubber mixed in the air. Thick, choking, metallic.
He got one arm free, slammed his fist into the man’s throat. The attacker coughed, staggered, but came back swinging. Gage ducked the punch, grabbed a jagged piece of debris from the floor. A shard of metal from a broken tool cart. And Gage jammed it upward, catching the man across the face.
The thug reeled back with a roar, blood dark against his cheek. Gage lunged, driving forward again, but before he could finish it, another sound cut through the chaos. A sharp grunt.
Rena.
Gage whipped his head around in time to see another attacker charging her from the shadows. The guy hit her full force, tackling her to the ground. Her gun went skidding across the floor. She fought back, kicking, twisting, but he was heavier, pressing her down, trying to pin her arms.
Shots rang out. Close, deafening. Muzzle flashes strobed the smoke. Gage couldn’t tell who was firing, couldn’t think past the roar in his ears.
Noah was moving fast, limping hard, dragging Lily behind him toward cover.
He shoved her behind an overturned crate, putting his body between her and the fight.
Owen was already firing from the far corner, his weapon barking in controlled bursts, forcing two more gunmen to dive for cover behind a stack of training tires.
With his pulse pounding in his ears, Gage turned back to his attacker. The man was recovering, pushing to his feet, face twisted with rage.
Gage spat blood, squared his stance, and lifted his fists. “Come on, then,” he muttered.