Pain.
The first constant. A screaming, burning agony in my hands and feet, like a blowtorch to my skin.
I gasp, arching my back, trying to escape the fire.
“Easy. Hold him.”
Hands press me down.
I sit up.
Red light. Vibration. The smell of jet fuel and sterile saline.
I’m inside a Blackhawk, stripped down to my boxers, covered in heated thermal blankets. Wires trail from my chest. An IV line runs into the crook of my elbow.
Someone rubs my feet. Hard.
I kick out.
“Quit kicking me, you son of a bitch. I’m trying to save your toes.”
I blink.
Ford Sterling. Bronco. He sits at the end of the stretcher, massive shoulders hunched, working circulation back into my frozen limbs, looking like a Viking stumbling into a sterile field.
“Ford.”
My voice scrapes out, a rusty hinge.
“He’s back.” Bronco doesn’t look up. “Hey, sleeping beauty. You decided to rejoin the living?”
I try to sit. The movement makes the cabin spin.
“Where...”
“Five mikes out from the LZ,” a voice calls from my left.
I turn my head.
Declan Hutchinson. Hutch.
He sits on the jump seat, looking at a tablet. He isn’t wearing a suit today. He’s kitted out in full tactical rattle: plate carrier, drop holster, comms headset. The chief came out from behind the desk.
He looks tired, the lines around his eyes carving deep trenches.
“You look like hell, Vance.”
“I feel like it.” I look at the IV bag swinging from the ceiling dispensing warmed fluids. “Iris.” Her name centers me, stopping the spinning. “Where is she?”
“Copperhead Mine.” Hutch taps the screen. “Cipher has a lock on her signal. It’s stationary.”
“Is she?—”
“She’s alive,” Hutch cuts in. “She’s online. She accessed a satellite uplink twenty minutes ago.”
“She’s hacking?”
“She’s stalling. She set up a digital dead man’s switch. She bought us time.”
