Chapter 2 Cooper #2
No sniper taking position for a clean shot through those wide-open windows? They’re moving for breach and clear, not elimination. From 200 meters, I could put a round through her temple before she finished typing her next sentence. Any competent marksman could. Phoenix has competent marksmen.
Which means they need her alive. At least initially.
Information extraction. They want to know what she found, who she told, and where the evidence is stored.
Then they’ll kill her and make it look accidental.
Another professor having a mental breakdown.
Suicide by hanging, maybe. Or prescription overdose.
Something that fits the narrative of an overworked academic who stumbled onto something that terrified her.
Changes the tactical situation completely. They’ll use non-lethal methods—tasers, tranquilizers, physical restraint. Gives me an advantage. They’re planning for capture. I’m planning for war.
At 2345 hours, the situation escalates dramatically.
The black SUV returns, accompanied by two additional vehicles.
Nine operators deploy with the kind of professional equipment that means business.
A full Phoenix tactical team assembling for Obsidian protocol implementation.
Dr. Eliza Wren has approximately ten minutes to live unless I intervene now.
I run through my equipment one final time: sidearm, tactical knife, communications gear, medical supplies. It’s insufficient firepower for a sustained engagement against nine operators, but adequate for an extraction if I prioritize speed over confrontation.
The team establishes its perimeter. Two operators cover the main entrance, while another pair takes care of the service corridors.
One maintains overwatch from across the quad.
The remaining four prepare for entry, stacking up exactly as trained.
It’s textbook deployment for eliminating an isolated target who has no idea death is climbing her stairs.
Time to move.
My approach through the campus landscaping provides concealment until the final fifty meters. The smell of freshly cut grass mingles with the crisp, damp air of autumn leaves on the October night. Phoenix operators cover all ground-level entrances. Vertical infiltration becomes my only option.
Gothic architecture favors climbers—decorative stonework creates natural handholds, window ledges offer footholds, and architectural flourishes provide grip that modern buildings lack.
The north face offers a drainage pipe running past a second-floor balcony, continuing to a third-floor window that maintenance, no doubt, never remembers to lock.
My old D.C. knowledge is paying dividends tonight.
The pipe holds my weight easily, decades of paint and rust providing unexpected grip. I climb hand over hand, using window ledges as foot placements. It’s twenty feet to the second-floor balcony, another fifteen to the third-floor window.
Child’s play compared to Afghan cliff faces.
The window slides open with barely a whisper—predictable negligence from maintenance. Inside, I find a darkened classroom with chairs stacked for cleaning, the smell of chalk dust and old books heavy in the air.
Sound carries strangely in these old buildings. The Phoenix team ascends the main stairwell two floors below, their tactical boots creating distinctive echoes on the stone steps. They’re making no attempt at stealth.
Cocky bastards.
The third-floor corridor stretches ahead under harsh fluorescent lights. Dr. Wren’s door is closed, but a thin line of light bleeds beneath it. No sounds emerge from within—no typing, no talking, nothing.
Too quiet. Either she left, or she’s hiding.
Phoenix reaches the second floor. Their boots echo in the stairwell, getting closer. Ninety seconds until they reach this level.
I test the doorknob. Locked. These old locks are more suggestion than security—a quick manipulation with my knife and the mechanism clicks open.
The office door swings inward silently, revealing the expected chaos—books stacked like defensive fortifications, papers scattered across every surface, three computer monitors still glowing with data streams. The air carries the smell of cold coffee and vanilla perfume.
The desk chair sits empty, pushed back from the keyboard.
But she’s here. The faint sound of panicked breathing comes from beneath the desk, rapid and shallow.
She’s hiding as if ducking under furniture will stop professional killers.
Phoenix footsteps on the stairs. Sixty seconds.
I reach under the desk, my hand finding fabric.
I pull.
She comes out swinging, a wild haymaker catching my jaw with surprising force. Pure panic drives her fists as she fights for her life.
“No no no no—”
My hand covers her mouth, cutting off the stream of negatives. Her eyes go wide behind those glasses, green like sea glass, tears starting to form.
“Cerberus Security.” The words are quick, quiet, and whispered directly into her ear. “Morrison sent me.”
Recognition flickers through the panic. Not Phoenix. Rescue. Her body stops fighting and goes limp, nearly dropping to the floor.
I catch her, steadying her against my chest. She’s soft against the tactical vest, and that vanilla scent is stronger up close. Fuck.
Focus. Mission first.
“Can you run?”
She nods against my hand.
“Stay quiet. Move when I move. Stop when I stop. Understand?”
Another nod. I release her mouth.
“Thank God, I thought—Morrison said someone was coming but—are you really—who are you—”
Hand back over her mouth. “Quiet. Now.”
Phoenix is on the third floor. Thirty seconds.
She’s already talking. Already asking questions. Already compromising operational security with her inability to shut the fuck up.
This extraction just became my personal nightmare. A chatty academic who can’t stop verbalizing every thought while professional killers hunt us through a hostile city.
Fucking perfect.