26. The Embassy
Chapter twenty-six
The Embassy
Matt
The heat is suffocating, thick and unmoving. Sweat clings beneath my gear, but I barely feel it. Focus is everything.
I crouch behind a crumbling barrier, rifle tight to my shoulder, eyes focused on the abandoned embassy ahead. The place is dark, glass blown out—an empty shell of what used to be American soil.
“All elements, report,” Bishop crackles over comms.
“Steele, in position. Working the lock.”
“Overwatch set.” Hale replies.
“Demo, clear on your six.”
“Charlie, standing by,” our medic confirms.
I exhale and scan the perimeter. The city should be alive at this hour—dogs, voices, street traffic. Instead, it’s silent.
I glance at Bishop, barely visible in the dark. He taps his rifle grip once—move.
I shift forward and fall in beside Demo as Steele works the security panel, fingers gliding over his bypass tool.
“How long?” Bishop murmurs.
“Two minutes—if this relic still runs on embassy-grade security,” Steele replies.
I sweep the rooftops again. Nothing.
“Should’ve run into squatters by now,” Hale says over the net, voice low.
“Copy,” Bishop responds. “Stay sharp.”
A faint click. “We’re in,” Steele confirms.
“Demo, take point.” Bishop nods once.
I fall in on their six, slipping inside as the formation flows, muscle memory taking over.
The moment we breach, the air seems wrong. Not just abandoned. Chairs overturned, papers scattered, but no looters. No smashed screens. It feels staged, like it’s been prepped for us.
“Demo, clear that hallway,” Bishop orders.
“Moving,” Demo replies, vanishing down the corridor.
I stick tight to Bishop’s flank, muzzle sweeping the corridor as Steele pulls up the coordinates on his wrist tablet.
“Second floor, west wing, end of the hall,” he murmurs.
Bishop nods. “We move fast and quiet. No unnecessary noise.”
We ascend the stairs, boots whispering against worn carpet. Still no resistance.
“We’re in,” Steele says, crouching inside the server room.
Dust hangs in the glow of humming racks, motes drifting through the atmosphere.
Steele plugs in his decryptor, fingers moving. I hold, weapon steady, eyes chasing shadows. “Hale, talk to me.”
“Nothing outside.”
I don’t buy it. Something’s coming.
“Got it,” Steele mutters, jerking the USB free. “Cache locations, black-market sales, target lists—this is a gold mine.” “Pack it up.” Bishop commands.
Steele zips his gear and turns—
A burst of AK fire shreds the night.
“Contact!” Hale explodes over comms. “Two SUVs inbound—fifteen, maybe twenty hostiles, coming in hot!”
My stomach goes cold.
“We’re not making it to extraction,” Bishop growls.
Demo’s jaw tightens. “Options?”
I don’t hesitate. “We dig in and fight our way out.”
Bishop nods. “Defensive positions.”
The next volley tears through plaster, splinters spraying as we dive behind racks. Bishop shoves Steele deeper into the server room. “Move back!”
I slam against the servers, pulse pounding. “Hale, sitrep!” Bishop snaps.
“Convoy’s unloading! Coordinated movement!”
That sticks.
“Looters don’t roll like that,” Demo mutters, locking a mag into place.
No shit.
Bishop keys his radio. “Armed hostiles on site. Extraction compromised—requesting alternate evac.”
Silence. He tries again. “Command, do you copy?” Nothing.
The dread hits heavy, curling in my gut. Radio jamming. This isn’t some opportunistic looting run. This was a setup.
“They cut comms,” I say, tightening my grip on the rifle.
“Motherfuckers,” Demo snaps, dropping into a low crouch beside me.
“Fallback—safe house on the west end,” Bishop says. “First, we get the hell out of this building.”
A round slams into the doorframe, splinters spraying. A shadow slips down the hall—swift, practiced. Not local.
“That’s not militia movement,” I mutter. The kit looks too clean, the gait too trained.
Bishop’s jaw tightens. “Hale, enemy weapons?” he barks.
“Affirmative. Rolling a PKM into position—if they place that, it’s over,” Hale replies.
“Now,” Demo says, voice steady.
Bishop doesn’t hesitate. “Blow the stairwell. Channel them into the side corridors.”
Demo is already pulling a breaching charge. “Setting—thirty seconds.”
“Mason, take Steele and Charlie—secure an exit,” Bishop orders. “Hale, cover Demo.”
I nod and grab Steele’s vest. “Move.”
We sprint the corridor, boots slamming tile, past cracked windows and empty offices. Steele skids to a side door and pulls up his tablet.
“Electronic lock engaged. Give me a minute,” he says.
We don’t have a minute.
Movement down the hall. I raise my gun. “Steele, hurry the fuck up.”
He doesn’t look up, fingers flying. “Almost—”
A BOOM rips through the building as Demo’s charge detonates. Dust and debris rain down over us. Steele hisses, “Got it!”
We move into the alley as rounds snap past, sparking off concrete inches from my head.
I drop into cover, fire two clean bursts at advancing silhouettes, then key my comms. “Bishop, exit secure—get your ass out here.”
“Moving!”
Demo and Hale burst through the doorway, Bishop on their six.
“Hale’s got a rooftop a block east,” Bishop grits out. “We need to haul ass.”
I nod, scanning the street. More SUVs rolling in. More boots on the ground. Time bleeding away.
We push low through Niamey’s alleys, rifles up, adrenaline pounding. The city’s awake now—shouts in the distance, engines growling, shadows sliding under weak streetlamps. Hunting us.
“Hale, route?” Bishop calls. “East is hot—pickups with guns. Southwest’s cleaner, but not for long.”
“Copy. Mason, Demo—you’re point. Steele, secure that drive. Charlie, keep us moving,” Bishop directs.
“Roger,” Charlie answers, steady even on the run.
We cut through a deserted market, stalls collapsing in on themselves. Fire sprays a rusted van we just cleared.
“Rear contact!” Steele yells, dropping low.
I pivot, sight up, catch two hostiles spilling from a side alley—double-tap, one drops. Demo cuts down the second with a burst center-mass.
Bishop doesn’t break stride. “Keep pushing!”
We bolt after him, weaving through abandoned cars and toppled carts, walls of peeling blue and yellow blurring past.
From a distance, shouts in Hausa and Arabic carry through the night—calls for reinforcements.
“Hale, talk to me!” I huff, pressing my spine to a brick wall as I survey the next street.
“You have at least two teams trying to cut you off—one’s pushing from the main road, another from your three o’clock. They’re boxing you in.”
“We need a new route!” Bishop snaps.
A beat, then— “I’ve got something. Construction site, three blocks north. Four stories, steel frame. Slice through it, you might lose them.”
No guarantee.
“We’re moving. Stay on overwatch,” Bishop orders.
We race across cracked pavement, boots slamming. Shots chew the asphalt, but we don’t stop.
We breach, sweeping through exposed metal beams and half-poured concrete slabs. Dust, rust, sweat in the air.
“Steele, find a way up,” Bishop instructs.
Steele darts for a stairwell and yanks the access gate open.
“Hale, clear up top?” Bishop calls.
“For now. Another squad’s pushing from the west—ETA two minutes,” Hale answers.
“Push!” Bishop shouts.
We take the stairs in a hurry, boots clanging on metal. Halfway up, a shotgun blast rattles below—pellets tear the air as Steele takes cover behind a slab.
“They’re inside! How the fuck did they find us so fast?!” someone yells.
Demo turns, fires a short burst. One hostile drops, more close in.
“Hold them!” Bishop yells. “Mason, Steele—get to the roof and secure an exit.”
I haul Steele up the last few steps. The rooftop opens to the city—dim lights, drifting smoke, a skyline fractured by satellite dishes and radio towers.
“What do you see?” Bishop’s voice strains over comms. I sweep fast. No helo traffic. No vehicles to use. But—
“There’s scaffolding on the next building,” I say, pointing to the ten-foot gap between us and the neighboring structure.
Steele swears. “You want to jump that?”
“Unless you feel like getting shot,” I snap.
Automatic fire rattles below, teeth raking the unfinished floors.
“We’re running out of time,” Demo growls. “Move!” Bishop barks.
I take a breath, step back, and sprint. The rooftop thunders underfoot. Edge coming up—then I launch.
I’m weightless for a beat, wind howling in my ears. My boots slam onto the metal roof. Impact rattles through me as I roll and come up sprinting.
“Mason’s across!” Hale snaps.
Steele goes, then Demo, then Charlie. Bishop is last—rounds punch the air behind him as he soars.
He hits the scaffolding and his foot slips. I lunge and grab his vest, yanking him upright.
“Keep moving!” I shout.
We scramble over the next roof as hostiles swarm the site below.
“Charlie, check Bishop!” I order.
Charlie’s already on him, eyes on the leg where a shallow gash stains his fatigues.
“Grazed,” he says. “Not deep. Don’t put weight on it.”
Bishop grits his teeth. “I’m good.”
We drop into the alley, Charlie bracing Bishop if he falters.
“Hale, where’s our evac?” Bishop demands.
“Safe house four blocks south. But squads are closing in,” Hale answers.
“Then we make it quick.”
We push hard, cutting through twisting alleys and backstreets, keeping low as we weave through the shadows of Niamey.
“Two blocks out,” Hale’s voice comes through comms, breath controlled. “No movement on thermals, but that doesn’t mean we’re clear.”
Don’t have to tell me twice.
I shift my stance, every muscle tense, waiting for the next hit.
“Bishop, status?” Charlie asks, keeping close to him as we move.
“Still walking,” he grunts, his breathing sharp but steady. “Don’t slow down for me.”
“Not an option,” Charlie mutters, adjusting his hold to keep him upright.
The safe house comes into view—a rundown two-story structure, walls stained with time, windows boarded up.
It looks abandoned. Doesn’t mean it is.
I take point, Demo on my flank as we close in on the back entrance. Steele moves behind us, tablet out, scanning for signals.