Chapter 16 Talia #2
“I’m an analyst. You guys are—”
“Kinetic,” he finishes. “But we need the brain. You saw it. Halo respects the code. Ghost respects the intel. You’re not just a package to them.”
“And to you?”
His eyes darken. “You know what you are to me.”
“Hey, lovebirds,” Torque calls out. “Ghost said rest, not romance. Keep the heartrate down.”
Jackson flips him off without looking away from me. “Get some sleep. We have a war to plan tomorrow.”
I nod. I curl up on the adjacent cot, pulling a wool blanket over me.
The sounds of the warehouse—the tap of Halo’s keyboard, the low murmur of Brass and Ghost discussing tactics, the snick-snick of Whisper’s rifle bolt—should keep me awake.
Instead, they act as a lullaby. A perimeter of violence keeping the world at bay.
For the first time in days, I close my eyes, and I don’t see the black SUV mowing Victor down.
I see Jackson standing between me and the darkness.
The next twenty-four hours blur into a montage of preparation.
Halo and Vargas argue over voltage requirements. Brass builds a 3D holographic map of the Nexus building using blueprints I pulled from the city archives. Torque acquires a nondescript delivery van and a high-speed interceptor, tinkering with the engines until they purr with unnatural power.
I spend the time with Ghost and Brass, refining the target package.
“The server room is here,” I point to the hologram. “Subbasement three. Single access point.”
“Fatal funnel,” Brass mutters. “One way in, one way out. If they pin you down there, it’s over.”
“We need a diversion,” Jackson says. He’s rested, moving better, though he still guards his left arm. “Something massive at the front gate. Pull their eyes.”
“I can blow the substation,” Torque offers. “Kill the grid. Halo loops the cameras.”
“I need to be in the room,” I say.
Ghost looks at me. “Halo can run the script remotely once we plug in.”
“No.” I shake my head. “The Root Seed is a brute-force weapon. But we also need to know who is giving the orders. I need to be at the terminal to trace the command line back to the source while the Seed uploads. Halo can’t do both.”
“She’s right,” Jackson says. “I take her in. I breach the door; she handles the data.”
“You’re compromised,” Ghost says. “Brass should take the point.”
“She’s my principal.” Jackson’s voice drops, hard and flat. “Nobody guards her but me.”
The room goes silent. The guys exchange looks. Torque grins. Brass shakes his head.
Ghost studies Jackson for a long beat. “Compromised,” he repeats softly. But there’s no judgment in it. Just acknowledgment. “Fine. Fuse and Singh on infiltration. Torque, extraction. Whisper, high ground. Halo, cyber overwatch. Brass and I take the front door and make noise.”
“How much noise?” Brass asks.
Ghost smiles. It’s a terrifying expression. “All of it.”
2200 Hours.
We gear up.
The transformation is absolute. The joking stops. The banter dies. They pull on tactical vests, check comms, and load magazines with efficient, jerky movements.
They become machines.
Jackson hands me a vest. “Put this on. Ceramic plates. Heavy, but it stops a rifle round.”
I pull it over my head and strap it tight. “I feel like a turtle.”
“A bulletproof turtle.” He hands me my Glock, cleaned and oiled. “Stay behind me. If I say move, you move. If I say run, you run. Do not hesitate.”
“I won’t.”
“Mount up,” Ghost orders.
We file out to the loading dock. The night air is cool and damp. The city lights of Chicago reflect off the low clouds in an orange haze.
I climb into the back of the blacked-out SUV with Jackson. Whisper takes the front. Halo sets up his mobile command center in the third row.
The convoy rolls out. Torque leads in the van.
“Comms check,” Ghost says.
“Brass, green.”
“Halo, green.”
“Whisper, green.”
“Torque, green.”
“Fuse, green.”
I tap my earpiece. “Singh, green.”
“Two miles to target,” Halo says from the back. “Nexus grid is active. They’ve reinforced the perimeter. I’m reading thermal signatures on the roof and in the lobby. They’re expecting trouble.”
“They’re expecting an intrusion,” Jackson says, his hand finding mine in the dark. “They aren’t expecting an assault.”
“Approaching the substation,” Torque says. “Charges set. Waiting on your mark.”
“Hold,” Ghost commands. “Wait for Fuse to be in position.”
We park three blocks out. The street is empty. The Nexus tower looms ahead, a monolith of black glass. It looks impenetrable.
Jackson checks his gear one last time. He looks at me. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand. “Let’s go.”
“Fuse in position,” Jackson says into the comms. “Rear service entrance.”
“Copy,” Ghost says. “Torque. Light it up.”
A massive flash of blue light splits the sky to the north. The substation blows. A second later, the boom rattles the windows of the SUV.
The streetlights die. The Nexus tower goes dark against the skyline, a black monolith swallowed by the night.
“Power down,” Halo says. “Generators kicking in … Three … Two … One. Cameras are looped. You have a sixty-second window to breach.”
“Go,” Jackson says.
We burst out of the SUV, sprinting across the wet pavement toward the service door. The air smells of ozone and impending rain. My boots slap against the concrete, loud in my own ears, but swallowed by the chaos of the city reacting to the blackout.
Jackson reaches the door first. He raises his leg to kick, but the door swings open from the inside.
Three men spill out. Not security guards. Hard targets. Phoenix operatives in tactical gear, confused by the blackout, but weapons raised.
The lead operative slams into Jackson. They go down in a tangle of limbs and swearing.
The second man swings his rifle toward me.
I freeze.
The third man—huge, a wall of muscle—lunges. He grabs my vest, spinning me around, slamming my back against the brick wall. The wind leaves my lungs in a rush. Cold steel presses against my temple.
“Drop it!” he screams at Jackson. “Drop it or she dies!”
Jackson freezes. He has the first man in a chokehold, his knife poised to sever an artery. He looks up. His eyes lock on the gun pressed to my head.
He releases the man on the ground. Slowly stands. His hands go up, palms open.
“Easy,” Jackson says. His voice is terrifyingly calm. “Let her go.”
“Kick the gun away,” the man holding me commands. “Now!”
Jackson kicks his Glock across the pavement. It skitters into the dark.
“On your knees. Hands behind your head.”
Jackson sinks to his knees. But his eyes never leave the man holding me. They aren’t the eyes of a man surrendering. They are the eyes of a man calculating the trajectory of a kill.
“You’re making a mistake,” Jackson says softly.
“Shut up.” The man tightens his grip on my throat. “Secure him.”
The operative on the ground scrambles up, reaching for zip ties. The second man keeps his rifle trained on Jackson’s chest.
“I’m going to give you one chance,” Jackson says. “Let her go, and you walk away.”
The man holding me laughs. A wet, nervous sound. “I’m holding the gun, asshole. I make the rules.”
“Fine,” Jackson says. “It’s your funeral.”
The movement is a blur.
Jackson doesn’t lunge at the men standing over him. He drops flat, sweeping the leg of the man with the zip ties. The man hits the pavement hard.
The rifleman panics, swinging his weapon down.
Jackson rolls, coming up inside the rifleman’s guard. He drives a knife—one I didn’t see him draw—up under the man’s chin.
A gurgle. A spray of dark fluid.
The man holding me flinches. His grip loosens for a microsecond.
Partners make tactical decisions.
I don’t wait for Jackson to save me. I stomp my heel down on the man’s instep, putting all my weight into the blow.
He grunts, distracting him.
I drop my weight, twisting away from the gun barrel just like Jackson showed me in the safe house. The gun goes off—a deafening crack right next to my ear. The muzzle flash blinds me.
But I’m free.
I stumble back, raising my Glock.
The man swings his weapon back toward me, rage twisting his face.
“No!” Jackson roars.
He hurls the knife. It catches the man in the shoulder, burying to the hilt. The man screams, dropping his gun, clutching the wound.
Jackson is on him in a heartbeat. He tackles him into the brick wall. The sound of the impact is sickening. Jackson doesn’t stop. He strikes—once, twice, three times—brutal, efficient blows that silence the scream.
The man slides down the wall. He doesn’t get up.
Silence crashes back into the alley.
Jackson stands over the body, chest heaving. He wipes blood from his face—not his own. He turns to me.
“Check in,” he rasps.
I holster my weapon with shaking hands. “I’m—I’m functional.”
He crosses the distance between us, grabbing my shoulders, his eyes scanning me for holes. “He fired. Did he hit you?”
“Missed. I stomped his foot.”
A savage grin breaks through the blood on his face. “That’s my girl.”
“Fuse, sitrep!” Ghost’s voice barks in my ear. “We heard shots.”
“Contact,” Jackson says, touching his comms. “Three hostiles down. We are green.”
“Move your ass,” Ghost says. “You just woke up the whole building.”
Jackson retrieves his Glock and his knife. He wipes the blade on the dead man’s tactical vest.
“Ready?” he asks me.
I look at the three bodies. The violence is real now. Visceral. But my hands aren’t shaking.
“Ready.”
He hits the mag-lock release on the service door. It disengages with a heavy clunk.
He pulls the door open. Darkness stretches out before us, a long corridor leading into the belly of the beast.
“Stay close,” he says. “We’re walking into a trap.”
“I know.” I step up beside him, weapon drawn.
We cross the threshold. The heavy steel door slams shut behind us, sealing us in.
We are inside.