26. The Embassy #2
“No security system. Power’s been cut for weeks.”
“Not our biggest problem,” I mutter.
Bishop gives a short nod. “Mason, Demo—clear it.”
We stack on the door. Three-count, then Demo kicks it in.
I sweep interior. The place smells of dust, old wood, and stale air—no fresh movement, no food, nothing to suggest recent use.
“Clear,” I call.
“Clear,” Demo echoes from the next room.
The team files in, sealing the entrance behind us. For the first time in hours, we stop moving. But we aren’t safe. Not even close.
I let out a slow breath as Steele drops his pack near an overturned table.
Charlie already has his med kit out, motioning Bishop down onto a sagging couch. “Sit,” he mutters.
Bishop pulls his pant leg up to reveal the bloody gash above his knee. “Grazed, like you said. It’s not deep.”
“Still needs to be cleaned and wrapped. Don’t be an idiot,” Charlie snaps.
I scan the interior—bare walls, battered chairs, a broken table. This place hasn’t been occupied in a while.
“We’re exposed here,” Demo says quietly.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Not a long-term hideout.”
Steele plugs his drive into the tablet.
“Tell me we didn’t just get shot at for nothing,” I mutter.
“Depends on what you call nothing,” Steele says, brow furrowed. “Cache locations, smuggling routes, flagged militia leaders. Someone in the U.S. government had their hands deep in this.”
Bishop exhales sharply. “Anything on who just tried to kill us?”
Steele scrolls, then freezes.
“What?” Bishop presses.
Steele looks up, face unreadable, voice tight. “This militia isn’t operating alone. Someone’s feeding them intel.”
My stomach drops.
“How recent?” I ask.
“Within the last twelve hours.”
I meet Bishop’s gaze. We haven’t just been set up. We’re still hot.
Silence stretches. Then—
“We have to go,” Bishop says, pushing to his feet despite Charlie’s protest.
“Hold on,” Steele cuts in. “We move too fast—they just track us again. We need to locate the source.”
Charlie exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “We doing this now?”
“We don’t have a choice,” Bishop replies, frustration sharp in his tone.
Someone gave them our location—or they’ve tagged us. And we’re sitting in a safe house that isn’t safe anymore.
“It’s not comms,” I say. “We switched frequencies. They still found us.”
“Then it’s either a physical tracker…” Demo starts.
“…or we’ve got a leak,” Bishop finishes.
The words hang there, accusations beneath the silence. In this game, no one’s above suspicion. I look at Bishop as Charlie wraps his leg.
“Alright,” he says finally. “Let’s do a sweep.”
I nod. “Kit check—everything from the embassy. Steele, the hard drive first.”
We go quickly—unhooking gear, stripping rifles, helmets, packs. I flip my plate carrier, running my fingers over the seams, feeling for irregular stitching or hidden weight. Nothing. Demo breaks his sidearm down to the frame.
“Charlie, med supplies too,” Bishop adds. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone planted something in a kit.”
Charlie mutters but dumps gauze, syringes, trauma packs onto the floor.
Then Steele curses. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?” I ask.
He yanks the USB free, holding it up.
“It’s piggybacked. Tracker embedded in the firmware—coded before we ever got it.”
“So the second we pulled data, they knew exactly where we were,” Demo states.
I exhale. We haven’t been tracked. We brought the tracker with us.
“Can you wipe it?” Bishop asks.
“Yeah, but it’s too late. They already know,” Steele says.
“How long?” Charlie asks.
Steele hesitates. “If they’re smart? Already on the way.”
The room goes silent. Bishop doesn’t waver. “We move. Now.”
We’re still pulling gear on when Hale’s voice cuts in. “You need to get the fuck out of there.”
Bishop presses his mic. “Talk to me.”
“Convoy inbound. Six vehicles. Pickups and armored transport. ETA… ninety seconds.”
“Secondary route,” Bishop says sharply.
We advance—rapid, efficient, no wasted motion. I sling my rifle, grab my pack. “Hale, best exit?”
“Back alley southbound. Puts you three blocks out before they lock it down.”
“Copy.”
Bishop leads us through the creaking door. We spill into the alley, night air heavy with dust and humidity.
Engines rumble close.
We’re halfway down the passageway when the first shot cracks.
“Contact!” Demo dives for cover as rounds chew into brick.
Three figures emerge from the next street, muzzle flashes strobing.
I fire. One drops. Demo takes another, his shots precise.
The last ducks behind a rusted car, spraying blind.
“Keep moving!” Bishop shouts.
We rush forward, hugging walls—until headlights cut the street ahead. A pickup skids sideways, blocking our exit. Doors fling open, more hostiles piling out.
“Fall back!” Bishop orders.
Gunfire rakes from the rear. They’ve herded us. Execution style.
I press against the wall, catching Bishop’s look. No words. We both know—we’re trapped.
Automatic fire chews into brick and steel, debris raining down.
“We’re boxed in!” Charlie shouts.
A truck blocks our exit, headlights blinding, silhouettes spilling out with rifles raised.
Kill zone.
“Options?” Bishop growls.
“We fight through,” I mutter, pulse thundering.
“No other choice,” Demo grunts.
The alley erupts. I break left, snapping three shots. Steele and Demo hammer right, bursts tight and controlled as Charlie drags Bishop for cover.
The truck’s windshield explodes—Hale’s rifle from above.
“One down. More coming,” Hale calls.
“Keep them off us!” I snap, reloading. Not enough rounds left.
“Mason, suppressing fire. Demo, frag out!” Bishop commands.
I lean out, spraying the shooters repositioning behind the truck. Demo pulls a pin, lobs a grenade.
The blast rocks the street, shockwave punching my chest. Smoke and dust roll. A screaming figure stumbles out—I finish him.
“Move!” Bishop orders.
Charlie half-drags Bishop forward as we push through. Shots spark again—hostiles recovering quickly.
Then a heavy thud. A new shooter steps out of the truck. Not militia. Tactical. Precise. Black plate carrier. Customized rifle.
The first burst crashes into the wall beside me, spraying chips. I snap my weapon up, but he’s already moving—sharp, disciplined.
Controlled bursts drive us back.
“Hale, I need a shot!” I bark.
“I don’t have one—he’s too fast,” Hale growls.
Not some random fighter. He’s trained.
“Demo, Steele?” I call.
“Hit but mobile,” Demo replies.
“Back route?” Bishop asks.
Demo eyes a narrow side passage, half-blocked with trash. “Could work. No cover.”
“Better than waiting to die,” Bishop mutters.
“Agreed,” I say.
“We peel one by one. Mason, cover. Demo, you and Steele first. Charlie, you’re next. I’m last.” Bishop commands.
I brace, locked on the hostile. He shifts—
I shoot, pinning him down. “Go!”
Demo and Steele slip into the passage. The shooter recovers, tracking, but I keep him pinned.
“Charlie, now!”
Charlie pulls Bishop with him, disappearing into the dark.
My shoulder burns from sustained fire. “Hale, anything?”
“He’s repositioning. I don’t like it.”
Neither do I. Time to move. I push off the wall, sprinting. A crack splits the sky. I hit the ground hard. Think I’m done. Then the burn in my ribs—just a graze.
I roll, shove myself up. Hale’s voice rips through comms.
“Shooter’s down!”
I glance up. The hostile slumps against the truck, a hole punched through his head.
I exhale, sharp relief flooding me.
“Fucking finally,” I mutter.
“Get moving,” Bishop growls.
I don’t hesitate. I push through the passage, chest burning, following the team into the night.