The faceless voice again. “Copy.”
She keyed the radio off as Smith and Cutter returned with the stretcher and neck brace.
No time to dwell.
The four of them lifted together—slow and coordinated, keeping Stoller’s head and spine aligned. He didn’t wake or give any sign he felt them moving him. That worried her more than the blood.
“I’ve got his head,” she said. “Max, you take point. Smith, Cutter, sides. Nice and easy. Let’s move.”
They wheeled Stoller toward the freight elevator. The doors groaned open far too slowly before they maneuvered inside. Jen kept one hand on Stoller’s shoulder as she hit the button to ascend back to the main level and medical.
The lift lurched and began its slow climb, the motor whining somewhere above them in the shaft. The space was cramped asthe four of them stood around the stretcher, the air stinking of hydraulic fluid and rust. Stoller whimpered. She adjusted her jacket where it had slid off him.
What the hell had happened?
The lift crawled upward. Everything on Seven prioritized function over speed. Thirty seconds stretched into something almost geological.
The earbud in her left ear crackled. But this wasn’t the weather or Coast Guard chatter.
She didn’t recognize the voice. Clipped, precise. “Level Three, clear.”
We just left Level 3.
The accent slid ice down her spine. Eastern European. Russian.
Nobody on Seven spoke with that voice.
The lift shuddered to a stop.
That voice didn’t belong on an isolated missile defense station in the middle of the Pacific. Unless something had gone catastrophically wrong.
Max tensed beside her. “Chief, did you hear?—”
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered. “When those doors open, be ready to?—”
The elevator motor whined.
The doors groaned, then jerked open onto the main level.
Three familiar faces. Cleaning staff. But they wore tactical gear. Guns raised.
For a split second, her mind tried to paste their blue coveralls over the body armor—like reality had glitched. Lockhart from trash detail. Came through engineering every morning at eight. Quiet, but always smiled hello.
Months. They’d been here for months. Smiling, mopping floors, learning every corridor and shift rotation. Waiting for today.
“Out. Now.” Lockhart gestured with his gun. When he looked at her, his eyes were dead.
She lifted her hands. “We have an injured?—”
His pistol grip cracked against her temple. White pain burst behind her eyes and Jen dropped hard, knees hitting metal, her ears ringing.
She gasped but her hand dropped to her tool belt, fingers closing around the torque wrench. Eight inches of cool steel, solid weight. Something she could control. Not much against guns, but?—
“Don’t.” Max caught her wrist and yanked her to her feet.
Tears of pain blurred her vision. Warm blood slicked her fingers when she touched her temple.
Max steadied her on her feet, his mouth close to her ear. “You can lock them out of the missile systems. You run. Hide. Don’t let them get you.”
