A siren screams to life.
Not a breach alarm. A fire alarm.
The sprinklers overhead explode.
Water rains down on the facility. Cold, dirty water.
Chaos erupts below. The guards shout, looking up.
“Now.” I cut loose the order.
We open fire.
The element of surprise is absolute as we rain hell from the catwalks. The suppressors turn the gunshots into whispers, but the impacts hit loud. Bodies drop.
I ignore the fight below and sprint along the catwalk. There’s a glass office at the end of the gantry.
And Iris is inside.
She stands by the door. Soaking wet. Holding something in her hand. A flare? No. A lighter.
And Mercer is there. Outside the glass door. Trying to force it open.
I raise my rifle.
“Mercer.” The name tears out of me.
He turns, his gaze locking on me. The dead man walking.
His expression goes slack.
Ballistic glass stands between us, a slab rated to stop a .308. A body shot is wasted on it, and I don’t need his heart. I need him off that door, away from her, and I need the one barrier left in this room gone.
I sight center-mass on the panel itself. I don’t offer surrender.
I empty into the pane.
17
Flashpoint
IRIS
The sound isn’t a noise.
It’s a pressure change.
One second, the air in the glass office hangs stagnant, heavy with fear and ozone, the faint metallic tang of exposed circuitry burning somewhere in the walls. Next, the atmosphere detonates.
CRACK.
The reinforced glass wall behind Mercer doesn’t shatter. It disintegrates, atomized into a violent cloud of diamond dust and razor-edged hail. The shockwave slams into me like a physical blow, a massive hand driving me backward into the metal desk.
Instinct takes over. Arms up. Chin down.
A scream erupts from Mercer.
Through the gaps between my hands, I see it.
