Chapter 16 The Firefight
SIXTEEN
The Firefight
RIOT
Eight hostiles inbound. Maybe more.
The math sucks.
I grab the edge of the kitchen table—heavy oak, solid enough to stop a low-caliber round—and heave it over. It slams into the hardwood with a bone-jarring thud. I kick a chair out of the way, creating a fighting hole.
Above me, the floorboards creak. Sera and Evie. I can hear Rosie’s voice—a small, high-pitched murmur of terror.
Focus. The mission is them. The mission is her.
"Mitzy," I whisper, checking the seal on my earpiece. "Talk to me. Give me the eyes I don't have."
"Eight confirmed on thermal," Mitzy’s voice crackles, stripped of its usual playfulness. "Two more in the vehicles—staging, not pushing yet. They’re setting a perimeter. Two at the front, two at the back, four mobile units circling for a breach. They’re moving with discipline, Riot. These aren't street thugs."
"Echo team status?"
"Twelve minutes," she snaps. "Frost, Flint, and Hawk are pushing the bird to redline. They’re coming from the coast, but you’re in the gap. Twelve minutes is the hard deck."
Twelve minutes.
I do the mental inventory. Two spare mags. Thirty-two rounds plus the fifteen in the chamber. Eight targets.
The air in the kitchen is stagnant, smelling of Rosie’s abandoned strawberry yogurt and the cold, metallic scent of my weapon. I rack the slide, the sound loud as a gunshot in the quiet house. I settle my weight, knees bent, heart rate dropping into that slow, rhythmic thrum of the combat zone.
"Going dark," I mutter.
The front window explodes.
It’s not a shatter; it’s an annihilation. Glass sprays across the living room like diamond-edged shrapnel. I don't think. I roll left, clear of the kitchen island, coming up in a tactical crouch.
A shape looms in the frame. I fire. Two rounds, center mass. The shadow drops. A second man steps over his partner’s body, weapon raised. I don't give him the chance to level it. Two more rounds. He collapses backward into the bushes.
Return fire shreds the entryway. Drywall disintegrated. Plaster dust chokes the air, white and gritty. I relocate, sliding behind the kitchen island as lead chews through the oak table I just flipped.
Two down. Six left.
"Back door.” Mitzy’s voice is a whip-crack. "They’re testing the lock.”
I sprint. My boots find traction on the rug, then the tile. I reach the kitchen entrance just as the door splinters. The deadbolt gives way with a scream of tortured metal.
Two men. Tactical formation. High-low breach.
The first one never clears the threshold. I put a round through his throat. He hits the deck, choking. His partner fires wild—high and right. I feel the wind of the bullet pass my ear. I correct my aim, squeeze the trigger, and drop him in the doorway.
Four down. Four left.
Something hot scores across my left bicep. I don't look. I don't care. It’s just a graze, a reminder that I’m made of meat and bone.
The adrenaline is a roar in my ears now. The world is nothing but targets and angles.
"Two on the east side. They’re bypassing the doors. Side window. Now.” Mitzy’s voice is sharp enough to cut.
I’m moving before she finishes the sentence.
I hit the hallway, shoulder-checking the wall for stability.
A face appears in the glass—dark mask, dead eyes.
I fire through the pane. The glass spiderwebs, the round deflecting slightly, but it catches him in the shoulder.
He spins away, howling. His partner retreats into the shadows of the neighbor’s fence, seeking better cover.
Five down. Three left.
The house is a wreck. Shattered glass, overturned furniture, the copper-sweet smell of fresh blood mixing with the acrid bite of cordite. Upstairs, Rosie is crying. It’s a jagged, heartbroken sound.
Every sob is a bullet. They don't get past me. I am the wall.
"Echo ETA?" I rasp.
"Eight minutes, Riot. They’re over the city limits. Hold the line."
Eight minutes. I could do eight minutes in my sleep in Kandahar. But here, with a child upstairs, every second feels like a year.
I relocate to the base of the stairs. It’s the ultimate fatal funnel. If they want the girl, they have to come through me. I hear commands outside. Spanish. Rapid-fire. They’re reassessing. They realize this isn't a "soft" witness protection site. They realize they’re fighting an operator.
"Riot, one’s moving back," Mitzy says. "Different angle. He’s going for the neighbor's fence."
If he clears that fence, he has a clear line of sight to the back bedroom window. He doesn't even have to enter the house to end this.
I can't be in two places.
Footsteps on the porch. The front door breach is coming again.
Two men. Professionals. They use a flashbang this time.
The world goes white. A roar of sound. My ears ring, a high-pitched whine that drowns out the world. My vision is spots and blurred edges.
I fire blindly toward the door, forcing them to stay back.
I blink, shaking my head, my vision clearing just enough to see a silhouette.
I take the first man through the shattered window.
Clean drop. The second dives behind their SUV, pinned by my fire.
He starts shooting blind, suppressive rounds meant to keep my head down.
Six down. Two left.
I break for the back of the house. I have to stop the fence-jumper. The SUV guy is pinning the front, but I trust the oak table to hold. I clear the kitchen, hit the back door, and scan the yard through the smoke.
The fence guy is at the top. Leg over. He’s aiming his rifle at the second floor.
I raise my weapon. Fifty feet. Moving target. High stakes.
Breathe. Squeeze.
The shot is perfect.
He drops on the far side of the fence like a stone. I don’t wait to confirm. I’m already turning, racing back to the front room where the last hostile is still hammer-firing from behind the vehicle.
"Contact. One left at the front SUV.”
"Copy. Echo is six minutes out. Just hold, Riot. Don't be a hero."
"Watch me."
I take a position at the remains of the front window. The last man is dug in deep behind the engine block. We trade lead. He tries to advance twice, using the vehicle as a shield. I drive him back both times. A round ruffles my hair, slamming into the doorframe an inch from my temple.
I return fire, catching him in the thigh. He screams, dragging himself back behind the tire.
Wounded. Good. Wounded men make mistakes. They get desperate. They get loud.
The silence that follows is more agonizing than the gunfire. My heart is a drum in my chest. My lungs burn from the plaster dust.
"Echo on site," Mitzy says, her voice breaking with relief. "Frost north. Flint south. Bird is hovering."
"Copy."
Two sharp, heavy cracks ring out. Different caliber. .308. Suppressed.
The return fire from the SUV stops instantly.
Silence falls over the neighborhood, heavy and suffocating.
"Target neutralized," Frost’s voice comes through, cold and level. "We’re clear, Riot. Room is yours."
I exhale, and the air finally reaches the bottom of my lungs. My knees feel weak, the adrenaline crash starting its slow slide.
"Coming in hot." Flint appears in the shattered doorway. Full tactical kit. Night vision. Suppression gear. He looks like a ghost from my past life. He surveys the carnage with professional detachment. "Hell of a mess, Riot."
"They started it," I say, my voice sounding like I’ve been swallowing glass.
"Mm." His eyes flick to the ceiling. "Civilians?"
"Upstairs. Back bedroom. Three of them."
"Get them. Extraction in ninety seconds. We don't wait for the local sirens." Frost lays it out.
I'm already moving. The stairs creak under my boots. I look down at my hands—they’re coated in a mix of blood and drywall dust. I look like a nightmare. I stop outside the bedroom door and force my voice to soften.
"Evie? It's me. We're clear. Open up."
The sound of furniture scraping against the floor. The door opens, and Evie is there. She’s pale, shaking, but her eyes are fierce. Rosie is clutched against her chest, her face buried in Evie's neck.
She sees me. Sees the blood. Her face crumbles.
"You're hurt—"
"Not mine. Most of it." I reach for her, and she comes to me, and for one second I just hold on. I feel her heart beating against mine. I feel her alive. "I told you. I've got too much to live for."
"We need to move," Frost calls from the stairs. "Now."
I pull back, keeping one hand on her shoulder. I get them moving—down the stairs, past the bodies I’ve covered with rugs so Rosie doesn't see, out the front door where Flint is already idling the vehicle.
The next three minutes are a frantic blur. SUV to the airfield. Airfield to the helicopter. Angel is at the controls, the rotors already screaming. We lift off smooth as silk, and the sprawl of Sacramento falls away beneath us, a grid of lights that hides a thousand monsters.
I slump into the seat beside Evie. The adrenaline is gone now, leaving behind a cold, heavy exhaustion. My arm is throbbing.
"Jon."
Evie's voice pulls me back. She's looking at me with an expression that is a devastating mix of relief, fear, and something so tender it hurts.
"Yeah?"
"You killed a lot of people tonight."
The words land differently than I expected. Not an accusation. Just a fact she’s trying to reconcile with the man who kissed her in the crevice.
"Yeah," I say. I don't lie to her. "I did."
"For us."
"For you." I find her hand in the dim light of the cabin. Her skin is cold. I squeeze it. "I'd do it again. Every time."
She’s quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is steadier. "I was so scared. Sitting in that room, listening to the gunfire, not knowing if you were—" She stops, swallowing hard. "I've never been so scared in my life."
"I know," I whisper. "But you stayed. You kept Rosie calm. You did exactly what you needed to do."
"I wanted to help. I wanted to do something—"
"You did. You kept them safe. That was the mission. You were the only reason I could focus on the door."
From across the cabin, a small voice pipes up.
"Jon?"
Rosie is curled in Sera's lap, her eyes wide as she fights off sleep. She's looking at our joined hands.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Are you Aunt Evie's boyfriend?"
The question is a grenade. Sera makes a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob. Angel’s shoulders shake in the pilot’s seat. Evie goes completely still.
"Rosie—" she starts.
"Because Mommy says when boys hold your hand and look at you all worried like that, it means they like you," Rosie says with the terrifyingly simple logic of a seven-year-old. "And you keep looking at her. Like, all the time."
My hand tightens on Evie's. The armor I’ve worn for years—the jokes, the distance, the cynicism—it isn't just cracked. It's gone.
"Yeah, sweetheart," I say, my voice steady. "I'm Aunt Evie's boyfriend."
Something cracks open in my chest. It isn't pain. It’s light.
Evie turns to look at me. In the shadows of the helicopter, her face is all softness and tear tracks.
"Is that okay?" I ask her, my voice low. "I should have asked first. I just—"
"It's okay," she whispers. She leans her head on my shoulder. "It's more than okay."
Rosie nods, satisfied, and closes her eyes.
The helicopter carries us west, toward the coast, toward the sanctuary of the compound.
Toward home.