15. The Assault
FIFTEEN
The Assault
WYATT
The stolen truck dies two miles from the target. The engine sputters, choked by the dust and the punishing incline of the desert road, before the dashboard goes completely dark.
I don't try to restart it.
I grab my gear, kick the door open, and start walking.
The Sonoran Desert is a graveyard of scrub brush and cracked earth, plunging into freezing temperatures the second the sun drops below the horizon. The wind is a jagged blade slicing through the thin cotton of my shirt. I don't feel the cold. I don't feel the exhaustion dragging at my muscles.
I feel nothing but the singular, burning drive pulling me toward the Ares broker's secondary safe house.
Thirty miles south of the border. Far beyond the reach of federal jurisdiction. Far beyond the red tape of Guardian HRS.
I run a quick inventory as I hike up the steep ridgeline. I have a combat knife strapped to my right thigh. A stolen nine-millimeter sidearm holstered at my hip. A suppressed sniper rifle slung across my back. Forty-six rounds of pistol ammunition, and twelve for the rifle.
I have a heavy plate carrier strapped tight across my chest. What I don't have is a team, flashbangs, or overwatch.
It's exactly the way I operated for four years.
A ghost in the dark.
I reach the crest of the ridge. The compound sits in the belly of a deep arroyo below, illuminated by the harsh, artificial glare of high-sodium floodlights. It isn't a house.
It's a fortress.
Twelve-foot concrete walls reinforced with rebar, topped with thick, overlapping coils of razor wire. The low, mechanical hum of diesel generators bleeds into the quiet night.
A heavy iron gate blocks the single access road.
I slide down the embankment, the loose shale biting into my boots.
Forty-six pistol rounds, twelve sniper rounds, and a knife. It isn't enough to clear a fortress, but I don't need to survive. I just need to reach the man pulling the strings. I just need to put a bullet between the broker's eyes so Addy never has to look over her shoulder again.
I'm not leaving.
The promise echoes in the quiet of my mind, sharp and accusatory.
I broke it.
I walked out of that motel room while she slept, leaving her with the only man I trust to keep her breathing. Frost will protect her.
He'll put her in a cage, but she'll live.
I push the thought away. Emotion gets you killed. Hesitation gets you killed.
I sink into the absolute, frigid calm of the predator.
I unsling the sniper rifle, dropping to my stomach on the cold shale. I sight down the thermal scope, sweeping the perimeter.
Two sentries patrol the eastern wall, walking a slow, intersecting route along the packed dirt. They are heavily armed, carrying compact submachine guns and wearing heavy tactical vests.
Taking them from the ridge is a tactical error. Even a suppressed heavy-caliber rifle echoes in a rock canyon. If they drop now, the bodies will be found on the next patrol rotation, locking the compound down before the twelve-foot wall can be cleared.
This has to be done up close.
The rifle settles across my back as I slide down the embankment. The tree line offers heavy cover fifty yards from the eastern perimeter.
I draw the combat knife. The blackened steel absorbs the moonlight, dull and lethal.
Their pacing is strictly regimented. Five minutes per circuit. They meet at the corner, exchange a few words, and separate.
I wait until the nearest sentry turns his back, his heavy boots crunching rhythmically on the gravel.
That's my window.
Instead of running, I glide. Keeping my center of gravity low allows the deep shadows of the concrete wall to swallow me. The base of the barrier rises up just as the sentry completes his turn and starts walking back.
Spine pressed against the cold concrete, I control my breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Silent.
The sentry approaches. Four yards. Three yards. Two yards.
He pauses, digging into the pocket of his tactical vest for a lighter. The sharp scratch of the flint is the only warning he gets.
I step out of the shadows.
I clamp my left hand over his mouth, violently jerking his head back, and drive the combat knife up directly under the edge of his jaw. The blackened steel shears through the soft tissue, bypassing the heavy plate carrier and severing the brain stem instantly.
He goes completely rigid. No scream. No struggle. The nervous system simply shuts down.
Catching his dead weight prevents him from hitting the ground. The deepest pool of shadow at the base of the wall hides the body.
I wipe the blade clean on his tactical vest.
One down.
His submachine gun stays in the dirt. The weapon is too loud. A single burst from that rifle guarantees the entire compound will swarm the perimeter in thirty seconds.
Tracking the second sentry takes me down the length of the wall. He reaches the corner, pausing to look for his partner. He frowns, keying the radio on his shoulder.
I throw a loose stone across the gravel path, ten yards to his left.
The sentry snaps his weapon up, aiming into the dark. He takes a cautious step toward the noise, stepping away from the wall.
Three massive strides close the distance.
He spins, the submachine gun rising.
The heel of my boot drives into his knee, shattering the joint with a sickening crack. As he drops, the heavy pommel of the combat knife swings in a brutal arc, crushing his trachea. He collapses into the dirt, clawing at his throat, suffocating in agonizing silence.
The blade sinks into his chest to finish it.
I sheathe the knife and draw the nine-millimeter sidearm.
The rough concrete wall offers deep fissures in the mortar for leverage. The razor wire at the top is thick, but there's a small gap where the coils overlap. The sharp metal tears a thin line across my shoulder as I slip between the barbs and drop into the inner courtyard.
My boots hit the dirt in a crouch, the sidearm already raised.
The main structure is a sprawling, single-story hacienda with thick adobe walls and barred windows. Four more men hold the perimeter of the house, standing in the harsh glare of the security lights.
There's no way to cross the open courtyard without being seen.
I aim for the closest guard. Two suppressed shots center-mass, catching him between the armor plates. The dull thwip-thwip of the suppressed fire is barely audible over the diesel generators. He drops like a stone.
The second man turns, his eyes widening as he sees the body hit the dirt.
He doesn't reach for his radio. He doesn't hesitate. He raises his rifle and squeezes the trigger.
The sharp, deafening crack of unsuppressed gunfire tears through the night, shattering the silence.
The alarm trips. A brutal, blaring siren wails across the compound.
The stealth infiltration is over.
I throw myself sideways as a hail of bullets chews through the air where I was just standing. I hit the dirt, rolling behind a heavy, concrete planter.
"Intruder! East wall!" The shout echoes across the courtyard.
The heavy, rhythmic chatter of a mounted machine gun opens up from the roof of the hacienda. The concrete planter shatters under the sustained fire, showering me in dust and jagged fragments of clay. The air instantly fills with the sharp, acidic smell of cordite and pulverized stone.
I peek around the edge of the planter. Four men are advancing from the front gate, laying down a wall of suppression fire. A heavy gunner is entrenched on the roof, tracking my position with a massive belt-fed machine gun.
I lean out, firing three rapid shots. The lead man in the courtyard drops, clutching his throat.
A round clips my left bicep.
The impact spins me backward. The pain flares, hot and searing, tearing through the muscle like a branding iron. I hit the dirt, biting down on a curse.
A quick check of the wound confirms it's clean through the meat of the arm. Blood pours down my sleeve, warm and slick, soaking into the dirt, but the artery is intact.
My grip shifts on the sidearm as I roll to my knees. The empty magazine drops free. A fresh one slams into the grip. Thirty-one rounds left.
The sidearm kicks twice in my hand as I lean around the concrete. Two rounds punch into the chest of the closest advancing mercenary.
The heavy gunner on the roof tracks the muzzle flash.
A heavy-caliber round slams squarely into the center of my chest.
The impact is devastating. The kinetic energy punches the air out of my lungs, cracking my ribs and throwing me hard against the stone planter. I gasp, my vision swimming with black spots, struggling to drag oxygen back into a paralyzed diaphragm.
The sidearm slides out of my hand, skidding across the gravel out of reach.
I press my back against the stone, my chest burning with every ragged, agonizing breath. Blood drips steadily down my left arm. The pain in my ribs is blinding.
The heavy gunfire abruptly stops.
Boots crunch on the gravel, moving in slow, deliberate steps toward my position. They're fanning out. Surrounding the planter.
My eyes drift shut. My hand drops to my thigh, unstrapping the combat knife.
I run my thumb over the blackened steel.
It ends here. In the dirt. In the dark.
Death was part of the equation the second my boots crossed the border. The broker loses his security detail tonight, leaving him entirely exposed. Guardian HRS will eventually find the intel and clean up the rest.
Frost isn't coming. I'm completely on my own. But Addy will be safe.
I grip the handle of the knife, adjusting my stance, waiting for the first man to round the corner. I'll take at least two of them with me before they put me in the ground.
A heavy, guttural roar shatters the night.
The massive steel gates at the front of the compound explode inward, the heavy hinges tearing free from the concrete in a shower of sparks. A matte-black SUV crashes into the courtyard, its heavy grille crushing the wreckage of the gates into the dirt.
The mercenaries freeze, their weapons swinging wildly toward the new threat.
A suppressed rifle cracks from the tree line outside the walls.
The heavy gunner on the roof drops instantly, his body pitching forward over the parapet and crashing into the courtyard below with a sickening crunch.
Kade.
The SUV skids to a halt, kicking up a massive cloud of choking dust. The doors fly open before the vehicle even stops moving.
Flint and Riot deploy on the left flank, moving with terrifying speed. Their suppressed rifles spit fire, dropping the remaining mercenaries advancing on my position before the men can pull their triggers. The air fills with the sharp, metallic ping of brass hitting the asphalt.
A fourth man steps out of the passenger side of the SUV.
Frost.
He is fully kitted in Guardian HRS black-ops gear—heavy plate carrier, ballistic helmet, and night-vision optics.
Moving with absolute tactical discipline, he uses the heavy steel frame of the SUV for cover.
He raises his rifle, putting a three-round burst directly through the chest of a mercenary charging from the front door of the hacienda.
The courtyard falls completely silent.
Pushing up from the dirt, my spine grinds against the crumbling concrete planter. The pain in my chest is a jagged, burning ache. Every breath drags like ground glass into my lungs, but staying down isn't an option. My fist clenches around the combat knife as I force myself to stand.
"Cover!" Frost barks the command over his shoulder.
Flint and Riot instantly fan out, rifles raised, sweeping the dark windows of the hacienda.
Frost moves with tight, controlled efficiency. He uses the heavy concrete pillars for cover, bounding across the courtyard until he reaches the shattered planter. He stops two feet in front of me.
His gaze drops to the blood soaking the sleeve of my jacket. He looks at my cracked chest plate.
"Guess you're not dead." Frost's voice is tight, stripping away the icy armor of the tactical commander. "Thought you might enjoy some help."
He doesn't ask for an apology. He doesn't offer one. He doesn't mention the brutal words we exchanged in the motel parking lot.
He pulls a spare rifle from his sling and shoves it hard against my chest.
"Let's go to work."