Wyatt had seen that posture before.
Fallujah. Helmand. Villages where civilians looked away because danger was already in the room.
He keyed his radio to an open frequency. Background chatter mostly. Then—faint, almost buried under static—a woman’s voice.
“—Missile command. I’m en route?—”
The transmission cut.
Wyatt’s hand balled. Hair pricked on the back of his neck.
Her voice had been tight, breathless—but controlled. Someone thinking while they ran.
Missile Command.I’m en route.
His thumb hovered over the transmit button. Every instinct said to respond. But if someone was sweeping levels on a military platform, an open transmission would paint a target on whoever she was.
He lowered his hand.
Something’s wrong.
He looked back toward the tower entrance. Henley and Rey had the patient secured and were carrying him toward the helo.
A man in coveralls crossed the helipad. Wyatt tracked him automatically. Rig workers moved easy—shoulders relaxed, heads down against the wind.
This one didn’t.
Balanced. Controlled. The walk of someone used to carrying a weapon.
Wyatt logged the shape under the jacket.
Rifle stock or compact SMG.
The man’s eyes swept across the Jayhawk as Rey and Henley began loading the casualty.
The man blinked.
For half a second, their eyes locked.
And there it was. The silent moment when two professionals recognized each other.
Wyatt’s heart didn’t race. It never did. His vision telescoped. Time stretched.
The man broke eye contact, casually circling toward the tail boom. He pulled something from under his jacket and crouched near the tail rotor gearbox.
Wyatt knew that shape—knew exactly what it would do to a bird in the air.
Fuck.
“Stay in the bird.” He released his harness clip. “Keep her hot. Prepare to lift.”
Bishop’s head snapped toward him. “What?—”
Wyatt shrugged off his harness. Door open. His boots hit the deck.
He sprinted for the tail. The man bolted.
Wyatt skidded to his knees.Fuck. Magnetic charge. Wired casing. Digital timer counting down.
