16. The ution
SIXTEEN
The Execution
WYATT
The heavy weight of the Guardian-issued rifle in my hands anchors me to the present. The cold composite stock presses against my wounded shoulder. The familiar metallic click of the safety disengaging cuts through the ringing in my ears.
Four years of operating as a ghost vanish in a single breath.
Frost falls into step beside me.
We don't speak. Decades of training and shared blood dictate the rhythm. He takes the left flank. My boots settle on the right.
"Riot, Flint, secure the perimeter and hold the south corridor." Frost's voice is a low, mechanical hum in his headset. "Kade, keep overwatch. Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out."
"Copy that." Kade's voice crackles over the radio. "You have a clear path to the rear utility entrance. I count five heat signatures spread across the ground floor."
Pain grinds through my chest with every step. The shattered ceramic of the plate carrier digs into my cracked ribs. The jagged agony radiates down my spine, threatening to buckle my knees, but adrenaline burns hotter than the damage.
We reach the heavy steel utility door at the rear of the hacienda.
Frost checks the handle. Locked.
A silent nod passes between us.
Frost steps back, driving a heavy front kick directly into the lock mechanism. The reinforced steel buckles inward with a deafening crack, tearing the deadbolt out of the doorframe.
My rifle comes up before the door hits the interior wall.
The hacienda's industrial kitchen is a massive expanse of stainless steel prep tables and hanging copper pots. The blown generators have plunged the room into absolute darkness. The narrow beam of the rifle's tactical light cuts through the gloom, casting long, warped shadows across the tile.
Movement flickers near the walk-in freezer.
A mercenary dives behind a thick butcher block, his weapon rising blindly into the dark.
Two suppressed rounds from my rifle take him through the heavy wood. The copper-jacketed bullets punch directly into his throat before his finger can brush the trigger. He slumps backward, his weapon clattering uselessly against the tile.
To my left, Frost drops a second target crouching near the industrial ovens. A tight three-round burst hits the center mass. The man crashes backward over a prep cart, sending a cascade of metal pans crashing to the floor. Blood sprays against the stainless steel refrigerator doors.
The kitchen goes dead quiet. The metallic ping of spent brass rolling across the floor is the only sound left.
"Clear," Frost mutters, his weapon trained on the swinging doors leading to the dining room.
My breathing is ragged. Every pull of oxygen feels like inhaling ground glass. The tourniquet Frost applied to my bicep is tight, cutting off the circulation, but the blood soaking my left sleeve is already turning cold and tacky against my skin.
Frost glances at me. His eyes lock onto my heaving chest.
He doesn't ask if I can keep going. He knows the answer.
Frost pushes through the swinging doors.
The dining room is empty, a long mahogany table stretching across the center of the room. We clear the corners, moving fast and low, aiming for the arched doorway leading into the great room.
A heavy burst of unsuppressed automatic fire tears through the drywall above our heads.
Plaster and wood splinters shower down over us. The deafening roar of the rifle echoes through the tight confines of the hallway.
We drop instantly, pressing our backs against opposite sides of the archway.
"Two targets." Frost's voice is barely audible over the ringing in my ears. "Entrenched behind the leather sofas in the center of the room. Heavy automatic weapons."
I risk a quick glance around the corner. The great room is a sprawling expanse of Spanish tile and heavy furniture. The harsh, erratic sweep of Kade's laser sight cuts through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, but the angle is wrong. He can't get a shot from outside.
"I'll draw their fire." Frost checks his primary. "You flank right."
There's no time to argue. Frost doesn't wait for confirmation.
He pivots around the left side of the archway, his rifle spitting fire. The mercenaries instantly shift their aim, laying down a brutal wall of suppression fire that chews through the plaster and studs around Frost's position.
That's my window.
Pushing off the wall, I sprint across the open archway, diving behind a massive stone fireplace on the right side of the room. The pain in my ribs flares, blinding and white-hot. My vision swims, the edges turning dark and static.
I force the pain down. I grip the rifle, sliding along the rough stone of the hearth.
The mercenaries are focused entirely on Frost, their weapons hammering the archway.
Leaning out from behind the stone, I lock the optical sight onto the closest target. A single shot tears through the side of the mercenary's head, dropping him instantly onto the tile.
The second man spins, realizing the flank is breached.
Frost is already moving. He steps out from the archway, closing the distance in three massive strides. A three-round burst from his rifle catches the remaining mercenary squarely in the chest. The man collapses backward, his heavy weapon clattering onto the expensive rug.
"Room clear." Frost lowers his weapon, sweeping the dark corners.
"The broker is in the basement." My voice is rough, tasting of copper and dust. "Safe room. Standard Ares protocol."
Frost steps over the bodies, leading the way toward the central hallway.
The descent into the basement is steep. The air grows cold and stagnant, smelling heavily of damp concrete and ozone. My boots feel like lead. The adrenaline is burning off, leaving nothing but the raw, unfiltered agony of the cracked ribs and the gunshot wound.
We reach the heavy steel door at the end of the stairwell.
It's a vault door, built to withstand a siege. Six locking bolts anchor it to the reinforced concrete frame. A heavy digital keypad glows red in the dark.
"I need thirty seconds to bypass." Frost runs a gloved hand over the keypad housing.
"We don't have thirty seconds." I sling the rifle across my back and draw my combat knife.
Stepping past Frost, I wedge the thick, blackened steel of the blade into the microscopic gap between the keypad housing and the concrete wall. Driving the heel of my boot against the pommel, the heavy steel bites into the plastic. The mounting screws shear with a sharp snap.
The entire housing rips free, exposing a nest of colored wires and a primary power feed.
Reaching into the housing, my fist closes around the thickest cable. I yank it violently from the motherboard.
The magnetic locks disengage with a heavy, metallic thud.
Frost kicks the vault door open.
The safe room is stark and blindingly bright, lined with towering server racks and a massive desk littered with burner phones and ledgers.
The Ares broker cowers behind the desk.
He's a soft man in a tailored suit, entirely out of place in a war zone. His hands tremble violently as he grips a silver-plated semi-automatic pistol, aiming it wildly at the doorway.
"Put it down." Frost keeps his rifle trained squarely on the broker's chest.
The broker's eyes dart frantically between the two of us. He takes in the tactical armor, the blood soaking my clothes, the absolute lack of hesitation in our stances.
"You're dead." The broker stammers, the silver pistol wavering in his grip. "Both of you. The syndicate will?—"
The threat dies in his throat.
My sidearm clears the holster in a fraction of a second. The weapon kicks in my hand.
The round punches directly through the bridge of the broker's nose.
The impact snaps his head back. His body collapses in a boneless heap behind the mahogany desk, knocking a stack of ledgers onto the floor. The silver pistol hits the concrete, sliding across the polished floor and comes to a rest against the server racks.
The silence that follows is absolute.
Lowering the sidearm, I stare at the blood pooling around the expensive leather shoes jutting out from behind the desk.
The network is broken. The threat is severed.
Addy is safe.
The sudden, total absence of adrenaline hits my system like a physical blow. The jagged pain in my ribs flares, overriding every other sense in my body. My knees buckle.
Gravity drags me down. I hit the concrete floor hard, the rifle clattering loudly against the server racks.
Frost is there in an instant. He drops to one knee, tossing his rifle aside. His hands grip my tactical vest, keeping me from collapsing entirely onto the floor.
"Kade, secure the perimeter. Flint, Riot, sweep the rest of the house." Frost's voice echoes in his comms, tight with an urgency I haven't heard in four years. "I need a medkit in the safe room. Now."
"On it, boss." Flint's voice crackles over the radio.
Frost shifts his attention back to me. His gloved hands move quickly, ripping the velcro on my tactical vest open to expose the cracked chest plate. He tosses the shattered ceramic aside, pressing his fingers gently against my bruised ribs.
A groan tears out of my throat. My vision swims, the bright fluorescent lights blurring into a halo.
"Ribs are cracked. Maybe broken." Frost mutters the assessment under his breath. His eyes scan the bloody mess of my left arm. "You're a stubborn bastard."
"Yeah, but she's safe." The words taste like ash.
Frost stops working for a fraction of a second. His hands hover over the cracked armor. He looks down at me, the harsh light illuminating the deep, exhausted lines around his eyes.
The anger that has defined our relationship for years is gone. The judgment is gone.
"Yeah." Frost pulls the velcro strap tight, securing my vest. "She's safe. You did good, little brother."
The words settle into the quiet of the room, heavy and final. The rift doesn't magically close. The blood isn't washed away. But the isolation of the last four years shatters, leaving something raw and real in its wake.
"Come on." Frost hauls my uninjured arm over his shoulder, lifting me off the concrete with raw physical strength. "Let's get you home."