Chapter 11 Sawyer
ELEVEN
Sawyer
The Titan International logistics hub squats against the LA skyline like a cancer—twelve acres of warehouses, chemical storage, and loading bays surrounded by razor wire and cameras.
From our position on the adjacent building, guards patrol in predictable patterns through my night vision scope. Competent but complacent.
They think they're guarding industrial chemicals, not weapons of mass destruction.
They're wrong.
"Two-minute intervals between patrols on the north side," Frost murmurs beside me, his voice barely audible through the comms. "Cameras have a three-second lag when they pivot. Doable."
Colt "Frost" Harrison—once Syria, once Colombia, a hundred ops in between. The man's a ghost when he needs to be, cold and deadly efficient.
"Thermal's showing three roving patrols inside," Flint adds from my other side, studying his handheld scanner. "Two static positions at the loading docks. They're clustered—suggests they're guarding something specific."
Jake "Flint" Morrison. Former Delta, breacher extraordinaire, and the kind of operator who can read a building's defensive setup like most people read a menu. Between him and Frost, we've run enough missions to move like parts of the same weapon.
"Alpha team in position," Max's voice crackles through my earpiece. "North entrance is clear."
"Bravo team ready at the south gate," Brady confirms. "On your signal, Hawk."
0158 on my watch. At noon, Prometheus plans to dump enough poison into LA's water supply to kill tens of thousands. The chemicals sit below us, ready for distribution. We stop them tonight, or we don't stop them at all.
"Remember," CJ's voice comes through from the mobile command center, "Savannah needs to access their mainframe to identify which chemicals are prepped and where they're staged. Without that intel, we could blow the whole place and still miss the active compounds."
Savannah checks her equipment beside me, kitted out in tactical gear that would look like dress-up on someone else. But her eyes—focused, determined, ready—tell a different story. The Glock on her hip isn't for show.
"You sure about this?" One more time.
"The mainframe requires biometric access," she says, checking her magazine.
"Nathan programmed it to recognize select Prometheus members.
What he didn't know is that I cloned his biometric signature months ago when I suspected he was hiding something.
" She holds up a device that looks like a thick smartphone.
"I can trick the system, but I have to be physically present. "
Solid reason. Doesn't mean I like it.
"Stay between Frost and me at all times," I tell her. "If shooting starts—"
"I drop and find cover while you handle threats." She meets my eyes. "This isn't my first firefight, remember?"
No, it's not. But that doesn't stop the protective instinct that makes me want to lock her in the command vehicle and handle this without her.
"Hawk." Frost's hand on my shoulder. "She's tougher than she looks. Trust her."
Flint nods once, a silent agreement. The man doesn't waste words when a look will do.
Tyler trusted me, and that didn't save him.
"All teams, we go on my mark," I say into comms. "Rules of engagement—anyone armed is hostile. We need the server room intact; everything else is expendable. Priority is destroying the chemicals staged for tomorrow's attack."
"Copy," comes from multiple voices.
Savannah chambers a round in her Glock, the sound sharp in the darkness. "Let's burn their world down."
"Mark."
We move.
Frost and Flint go first on the rappel lines, fast and silent, hitting the ground together. Immediately, they split—Frost left, Flint right—creating a security diamond. The movement is instinctive, practiced. They don't need to communicate it.
Savannah and I follow, my arm around her waist, controlling our descent. She doesn't shake this time—three days of being hunted has burned the fear out of her, replaced it with purpose.
"North breach," Max reports, followed by the muffled thump of a breaching charge.
"South breach," Brady confirms.
Gunfire erupts from both directions—the guards responding faster than expected. Professional security, not mall cops. Alpha and Bravo teams draw them off, giving our smaller team time to infiltrate.
"Moving to secondary," I tell them, leading toward the service entrance Intel identified.
The lock is electronic, high-end. Savannah steps forward with her device, fingers flying across the screen. Frost and I take positions on either side of the door, weapons up. Flint takes three steps back, scanning our six with thermal.
"Thirty seconds," she says.
Movement to our left—a guard coming around the corner. Frost's weapon tracks, and the guard drops with a suppressed double-tap before he can radio for help.
Professional. Clean.
"Thermal's clear for twenty meters," Flint murmurs. "But we've got heat signatures converging from the east wing. Two minutes, maybe three."
"In," Savannah says as the lock disengages.
The service corridor is industrial plain—concrete floors, exposed pipes, fluorescent lighting that makes everything look sick. Building plans showed the server room in sublevel 2, northeast corner. Four minutes if we meet no resistance.
Ninety seconds in, we meet resistance.
Three guards in tactical formation come up from the stairwell. They open fire immediately.
"Down!" I shove Savannah behind a support pillar as rounds spark off concrete.
Frost moves right without a word. Flint breaks left. The three of us create overlapping fields of fire—wordless coordination born from a hundred missions. Frost's suppressed weapon coughs twice. One guard drops. Flint's rifle barks, and the second crumples. The third tries to retreat.
Two rounds in his back before he reaches the door.
"Clear," Frost calls.
"Clear," from Flint.
Savannah's already moving from cover, weapon up, eyes scanning like we taught her. Good instincts.
"Alpha encountering heavy resistance," Max reports. "They were ready for us."
My blood goes cold. "It's a trap?"
"Unknown. Pushing through."
We take the stairs fast, Savannah between us. Frost leads, Flint takes rear security, and I stay on Savannah—a moving triangle formation that keeps her protected while maintaining 360-degree coverage. We don't discuss it.
We just move.
Sublevel 2 is darker, emergency lighting only. The server room door requires another hack, and while Savannah works, Frost and I create a defensive position. Flint moves ten feet back, thermal scanner active, reading the corridor behind us.
"Multiple heat signatures approaching from above," Flint says quietly. "They know we're here."
That's when Nathan Torres steps out of the shadows, FBI credentials visible, weapon holstered.
"Hello, Savi."
Savannah goes rigid beside me, her weapon coming up, but Nathan raises his hands.
"I'm not here to fight," Nathan says, eyes locked on Savannah. "I'm here to offer you a deal."
"The only deal you're getting is life in prison instead of a needle." My Glock centers on his chest.
He doesn't look at me. "Savi, you don't understand what you're doing. The system is broken. We're trying to fix it."
"By murdering thousands of innocent people?" Her voice is steady, but the tremor runs through her where our shoulders touch.
"Casualties of war. Every revolution requires sacrifice."
"Titan security converging on your position," CJ warns through comms. "Whatever you're doing, do it fast."
Nathan steps closer. I shift to maintain my shot angle. Frost adjusts left without being asked, creating a crossfire. Flint hasn't moved from his position, but his rifle tracks Nathan's center mass. Three weapons, three operators, one target.
"Walk away, Savi. Take your friends and disappear. We'll let you go."
"Like you let those FBI agents go?" She circles slightly. "You killed three good people."
"Symbols of a corrupt system." His facade cracks, showing the fanatic underneath. "Just like I'll kill anyone who stands in our way."
His hand lifts toward his jacket.
"Gun!" I shout, but Savannah's already moving.
She shoots him twice—center mass—before his weapon clears the holster. Nathan staggers, looking more surprised than hurt, body armor visible through the holes in his shirt.
"You shot me." Genuine shock. "You actually—"
Frost puts the third round through his forehead, dropping him instantly.
"Deadman switch," Frost says calmly, kicking a device away from Nathan's corpse. "Would have triggered explosives throughout the facility."
Savannah stares at Nathan's body for a heartbeat, then turns away. "The server room. We need to move."
No breakdown, no tears. She compartmentalizes like a professional.
The server room door yields to her device, and we're in—rows of humming servers, multiple terminals, the digital heart of Titan's operation.
"Two minutes," she says, plugging in her equipment. "I need to find the chemical manifests and distribution protocols."
"Bravo team, we need those trucks disabled," I call through comms.
"On it," Brady responds. "Count eight vehicles in the loading bay."
Gunfire echoes from above—Alpha team still engaged. Through the reinforced windows, security forces mass in the warehouse proper.
Flint takes position at the door, rifle braced. "They're stacking up out there. Preparing for dynamic entry."
Frost moves to the opposite corner, creating a crossfire angle. "Estimate twenty hostiles. They'll breach in under a minute."
The two of them work like mirror images—Frost checking his magazines, Flint adjusting his position slightly for better coverage. No wasted movement. No unnecessary communication.