“Where does it go?”
“Nowhere.” Cipher types rapidly in the background. “Dead end. There’s an abandoned mining outpost up there. The Copperhead facility. It’s off the grid.”
“That’s where they’re taking her. A black site for a black op.”
“Wraith is inbound,” Hutch’s voice returns, steadying the channel. “He’s in the chopper with Bronco. They’re fighting the headwinds, but they’ll hit the ground in fifteen. Rook is coordinating local law enforcement to shut down the highway and set up a perimeter.”
My team.
Task Force 9. The Shadow Division.
Men I’ve bled with. Men I’ll bleed with again. Men operating in the gray spaces outside the law’s reach.
Dax “Wraith” Calloway. The sniper who never misses.
Ford “Bronco” Sterling. The pilot who could fly a brick if you put an engine on it.
Silas “Rook” Jensen. The profiler who knows what you’re thinking before you do.
Julian “Cipher” Rhodes. The hacker who opens the room before anyone walks into it.
And me. Boyd “The Shield” Vance. The blunt instrument they send when subtlety is already dead.
They’re all coming. The cavalry is real, but fifteen minutes lasts a lifetime. Fifteen minutes gives Mercer enough time to hurt her, to realize she lies about the dead man switch. She told them every four hours. I figure we get one use of that. After that, they kill her.
“I’m moving to the logging road. Coordinates.”
“The satellite shows heat signatures at the mine. A lot of them. That’s no snatch-and-grab team. It’s a platoon.”
“Good.” I shove the comms unit into my pocket. “More targets to kill.”
“Boyd.” Hutch pauses. “Wait for the team. That’s an order. You go in alone, you die. You die, she dies. Do the math.”
The math. I look at the dark woods. I look at the blood on my hands.
Hutch speaks the truth. If I run now, the adrenaline burns off halfway there. I’ll crash. I’ll freeze. I’ll be useless to her.
“Copy,” I lie. “Holding position.”
“Don’t lie to me, Vance.”
“I’m at the wreckage. Find me.” I kill the connection and look around the clearing. I can’t stay in the open. The wind strips the heat from the emergency blanket faster than my body can generate it.
I need heat.
I look at the truck.
The engine block.
The massive diesel acts as a reservoir of cast iron. It holds heat, taking hours to cool down completely.
I scramble over the debris and climb up onto the side of the truck, moving toward the front. The hood rests crumpled, popped open by the impact.
I force it up.
A wave of warmth hits my face. Faint, fading, but there.
I slide into the engine bay. It’s a tight squeeze, a nest of hoses and metal, smelling of oil and hot rubber.
