Chapter 20 Jackson #2
And then he calls it, voice calm as a surgeon, “Path is open. Move.”
That’s when Ghost bellows, “Go!” emptying his magazine to keep any remaining heads down. “To the van. Everyone move. Now!”
We break cover.
Fifty feet of open concrete. Fifty feet of pure exposure.
Bullets hiss past, chewing up the floor, gritty chips stinging my face. I shove Talia forward, keeping myself between her and the kill squad.
“Run,” I snarl. “Don’t look back.”
Halo pivots for another shot, precision incarnate.
He’s not a tech guy.
He’s not backup.
He’s the invisible hand clearing the path—the reason any of us are still alive to run at all.
The real meaning of his call sign.
Halo.
Talia sprints for the van. A streak of motion and determination. Halo lowers his weapon and reaches for her. She dives inside, scrambling over the wheel well.
I’m three steps behind her.
The van is right there. Safety is right there.
Something twitches in my peripheral vision.
Movement. Right side. Between two trucks.
A shooter.
He bypassed the suppression fire. He’s kneeling, steadying his rifle against a tire. He’s invisible to Ghost and Brass.
He’s already raising his rifle.
Not aiming at me.
Aiming at the open van door. At the space Talia occupies.
There’s no time for a warning. No time to shout. No time for an angle.
It’s just math. Distance. Velocity. Trajectory.
The bullet hits her, unless I change the variable.
I throw myself sideways, twisting in midair as I reach the van, exposing my back to the shooter to close the angle.
Thud.
Thud.
Two impacts slam into me.
The first hits squarely in the back plate. The force is like being kicked by a horse. It cracks a rib, driving the breath from my lungs.
The second one misses the plate.
It catches me low, just above the hip, tearing through the soft Kevlar side panel and burying itself in flesh.
Fire detonates in my side. A hot, wet explosion of agony that overrides every other signal in my nervous system.
My vision stutters.
My legs fold. I crash against the van’s metal lip, half-in, half-out.
“Jackson!” Talia screams. Her voice shreds the air.
The shooter adjusts, cycling his bolt. Correcting. Finishing.
He thinks I’m down.
He thinks I’m dead.
He’s wrong.
Not dead. Not yet.
I roll onto my back through a haze of red agony. Every nerve protests. I raise the Glock. My hand shakes, then steadies. The shooter is framed in my sights, lining up his follow-up shot.
I exhale. I push the pain down into a box and lock the lid.
The world shrinks to my front sight post.
Squeeze.
The recoil kicks into my palm.
The shooter’s head jerks back. Pink mist sprays the truck tire. He drops.
“Torque. Go.” Ghost slams into the back of the van.
Brass grabs my vest, yanking me fully inside, dragging my dead weight across the metal floor.
The van launches forward. Tires scream against concrete. We smash through a chain-link fence, metal screeching against the chassis, and burst out into the night.
Torque swerves hard, throwing us against the wall. The door slams shut.
The world shrinks to metal walls, the smell of diesel, and the ragged sound of my own breathing.
I lie flat, staring at the ceiling rivets. The pain isn’t a sensation anymore; it’s an environment. A tidal wave of agony roaring in my bloodstream.
“Jackson?” Talia drops beside me. Her hands cup my face, trembling violently. Her eyes—wide, golden, devastated.
“I’m okay,” I rasp. Blood bubbles in my mouth. “Vest caught it.”
“You’re bleeding.” She presses down on my side, her hands slick with my blood. “The armor didn’t catch all of it. Oh God, Jackson.”
“Just a scratch.”
“Liar.” Tears carve tracks through the grime on her cheeks. They drop onto my face, hot and wet. “You jumped in front of it.”
“I will always protect you,” I manage to whisper.
“You’re an idiot.” Her forehead drops against mine, her breath shaky and smelling of Halon. “A heroic, stupid idiot.”
I try to laugh. It comes out as a rib-rattling cough that steals the air from my lungs and sends white sparks across my vision. “Did we kill it?”
Talia’s face shifts. Something haunted flashes in her eyes. She doesn’t look at Halo. She looks right at me, and she doesn’t lie.
“No,” she whispers. “It blocked the upload. It saw the Seed coming and it—it immunized itself.”
A cold heavier than the Halon settles in my chest.
“So it’s still active?”
“It’s not just active.” Her voice fractures. “We taught it how to defend itself. We made it stronger.”
The failure crushes me harder than the bullets. We bled for this. I took a bullet for this.
And the machine is still winning.
My vision tunnels again. The gray edges creep inward, shutting out the light. The adrenaline dump hits like a hammer, dragging me under.
“Hey.” Talia slaps my cheek lightly. “Stay with me. Eyes open.”
“Just resting …” My words slur. My tongue feels too big for my mouth.
“No. Open them.” Her voice is fierce, panic rising. “You promised me ‘after.’ We aren’t at ‘after’ yet.”
Her voice pulls me back. Anchors me. I force my eyes open, fighting the gravity of the dark. I focus on the gold flecks in her irises—my lighthouse in the storm.
“I’m here,” I breathe. “Not going anywhere.”
Brass slices my vest away, his knife flashing in the dim light. He assesses the wound, his hands moving fast. “Through the soft tissue,” he reports to Ghost. “Missed the spine, but he’s losing volume fast. We need a trauma center.”
“Thank God we brought them.”
“Five minutes out,” Torque calls from the front.
I grip Talia’s hand. I squeeze it, trying to tell her I’m still fighting, even if I can’t speak.