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It’s utter chaos. Exactly what we want. The commotion of clattering racket wanes to a muffled purr of white noise as I attack my task. Picking off the first several targets is easy. They’re shell-shocked. A handful, who weren’t terminated in the explosion, scramble through the wreckage toward the front parking lot. Ty will neutralize them.
Adrenaline surges through my veins, my heart hammers out an invigorating chant, and each of my senses heighten—sharp and honed like a lethal load of shrapnel. I take fire from my right, drop behind a crate, and shoot the one dauntless asshole who isn’t scurrying for the hills.
Combat is all training and muscle memory at this point. Much like the soothing snick, flick, flame of my Zippo, there’s a comforting rhythm to it.
Pivot. Squeeze. Shoot.
Pivot. Squeeze. Shoot.
Pivot. Squeeze. Shoot.
In less than a minute, the three of us have cleared out the open area of the warehouse. Now, we hunt the lurkers. They have no idea how outnumbered we are, or they’d be attempting to storm us. Illusion is often more powerful than reality. Add some mirrors to a single plume of smoke and convince the poor soul they’re about to catch fire.
For those still grasping at the straws of escape, the upheaval of blacked-out mayhem and the myriad of dead bodies surrounding them will serve as its own warning until Gage blows them to bits.
My priority is to get a position on the girls so we can blitz the rest. Performing a combat reload, I pull my partially spent magazine and insert a fresh one. There are three interior rooms, it seems, lining the north side of the warehouse. I kick open the door of the first one, knocking back a table that must’ve been slid in front as a flimsy deterrent, and throw a few more flash-bangs. Four tangos are inside, immobile now, but I fire on them anyway.
Pivot. Squeeze. Shoot.
Times four.
No one left breathing.
There’s a door on the far wall, and based on the depth of the room I’m currently in, I’d say it’s another room of similar size. With my back against the wall, I prepare to smash the door in when Wells joins me, drawing the same conclusion I have regarding Ivy and Celeste’s whereabouts.
When I kick in the door, battery-powered light floods out of the room, whiting out my goggles, so I flip them up and immediately catch sight of both girls held at gunpoint. I flick two fingers to Wells, who speaks into the comm behind me.
“We’ve got their twenty. Northwest interior room.”
That signals Gage, and immediately, the blast of the grenade launcher rebounds off the high industrial ceiling. He’ll decimate the rest of the place. Wells and I both have our rifles pointed at the bastards who dare to spout threats while putting their filthy paws on our girls and holding them like a goddamn shield.
Motherfucking pussies.
Despite the fury rocketing through the depths of my bones, I latch on to Celeste’s terrified gaze and wink. “I’ve got you, baby girl.”
At that, Ivy rasps, “Close your eyes, Lettie,” while Wells gives the order, “Execute.”
We fire in a single unified shot, splitting through the shrieks of rage and fright and cracking booms of obliteration.
My brave girl opens those dreamy brown beauties—which contain a hollowness I’m pissed as hell to see again—and realizes a drizzle of death is splattering her. Not a single sound breaches her lips.
I rush toward her, scooping her up in case she passes out. She vomits over my shoulder, violent fits of tremors racking through her.
Rubbing her back, I soothe her for the few seconds we have. “You’re okay, Ace. I’m here. You did so good.”
Ivy doesn’t look much better, curled around Wells and muttering, “I’ll never get used to that,” as he palms her head.
“I never want you to, Little Storm,” he says with clear remorse in his tenor.
“We’ve got them,” I announce into the comm.
“Three tangos on the south side,” Ty replies, alerting us to hold our position.
“Interior is all clear,” Gage answers. “Exiting to the south parking lot.”
“Tango one down,” Ty reports, pausing for about ten seconds before adding, “Tango two down.” We wait another thirty seconds until Ty’s voice resounds through our earpieces once again, “Beneath van two, Big Guy.”
“Tango three down,” Gage barks with a glint of a victorious chuckle. “All clear.”
