83. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
Mason's clipped voice comes through from the tree line where he's already set up. "I've got eyes on the whole east face. Two guards by the bay, one roaming the fence line. Building's mostly dark—looks like activity's contained to the main floor."
"Copy," Jake says. "Take overwatch. Anything moves wrong, you call it."
"Copy."
We pull off a quarter mile out, engine dying under Jake's hand, and the four of us move fast and quiet through the tree line toward the fence. My pulse is doing something I don't like—too fast, too loud in my own ears. I force it down. Focus.
Luke peels off toward the loading bay, rifle slung low. "Give me two minutes. I'll make some noise on the west side, pull their guy off the fence."
"Nonlethal," Jake reminds him.
"When have I ever—"
"Luke."
"Fine. Nonlethal. I’ll try."
He disappears into the dark, moving with that loose, unbothered gait that makes him look like he's out for a walk instead of about to draw two armed men into a diversion. I've seen him do this a dozen times. The irritating part is how easy he makes it look.
Harper's voice again. "Camera loop starts on my mark. You'll have ninety seconds through the east door before the feed resets."
"Copy," Jake says. "Hendricks and I go in through the office side."
I nod once, checking my weapons.
A distant crash echoes from the loading bay—metal on concrete, deliberate, loud enough to pull both guards toward it at a jog.
"Mark," Harper says.
Jake's already moving.
I follow, every nerve in my body narrowed down to one single point: find her.
The office door is thirty feet away, unlocked, dark.
I don't slow down until I'm standing in front of it, hand on the handle, Jake at my shoulder.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. "Go," I say.
The door swings open into the dark.