41. Finn
It’s a trap.
The realization hit him all at once. The dead Atlas agents. The intercepted transmission. The thermal readings. The suspiciously easy-to-follow trail. This wasn’t a rescue mission. The Atlas agent was bait.
Leave. Leave now.
Normally, he would ignore that voice, but all he could see was Lucie sitting by the ocean, her sketchbook balanced on her lap, her tongue sticking out.
Missions had always been simple: leave, complete the mission, come home.
But now he had someone to come home to. Someone he wanted to build his future with.
How lucky he was to have something so precious that made saying goodbye for missions so difficult.
The warehouse sat at the edge of an abandoned industrial complex, its rusted metal walls glowing orange in the early-morning sun.
Half the windows were boarded up. The others were shattered. A place forgotten by everyone except those trying to hide. Exactly the kind of place Legion assholes preferred.
A crackle sounded through his earpiece.
“Visual confirms three heat signatures inside,” Whistler said over comms from the control center. “Two stationary. One moving.”
Finn glanced toward the warehouse.
Three signatures. One missing Atlas agent. Two Legion operatives.
Simple.
Beside him, Isla checked her magazine.
“You know,” she said casually, “for a guy heading into a potentially dangerous situation, you’re awfully cheerful.”
Finn frowned.
“I am not cheerful.”
She snorted.
“You’re smiling like an idiot, General Vega,” she said, adjusting her vest.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are,” Charlie said over the comms.
Finn rolled his eyes. “Let’s focus on the mission, everyone.”
The warehouse loomed larger with each step. The rusted door stood ajar.
Sabrina knocked on the front door. If Legion had any agents worth their salt, they would have thermal imaging on them, too. They knew their numbers just as well as they did, and they knew they were there.
This is a trap.
“Everyone stop,” Finn shouted, but it was too late.
Gunfire erupted. The warehouse erupted into chaos. Bullets tore through the windows. Glass rained down from overhead. Finn dove behind a crate for cover.
Someone screamed. His head snapped toward Isla, who he swore was right behind him. She staggered backward.
“Man down, man down!” Sabrina yelled.
Red spread across Isla’s side. For one horrible second, she looked confused, then her knees buckled.
Charlie called for cover and ran ahead as Finn slid to Isla.
There was too much blood. Finn pressed both his hands against Isla’s wound. She screamed again. Blood seeped between his fingers.
“Stay with me,” Finn cried out.
Another volley of gunfire showered down on them.
“Am I going to die?” Isla gasped as blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“No, you’re not. I’m going to get you home,” he promised.
“We need to get her to Atlas,” Sabrina said, sliding down toward them, drawing her gun and firing two shots east.
“No, it’s too far,” Finn seethed. He gave Sabrina a look.
They would never make it. Technically, the Way Station didn’t exist. If they went to a hospital, they wouldn’t be agents there; they would have no backup, no clearance, and there would be too many questions.
But if they didn’t get her to a hospital now, Isla was going to die.
Lucie.
They needed Lucie.