He shudders. A violent, tectonic vibration traveling from his frame into mine. He presses his forehead against mine for one second. Just one. The heat radiating off him is feverish, chemical.
Then he pulls back. The mask slides back into place.
“We’re leaving. Now.” He turns to the door.
“Wait.” I grab his arm. The muscle runs rock hard, trembling with tension. “The laptop.”
I point to the ruggedized computer sitting on the desk. The screen radiates a soft blue light, the timer sitting at zero.
“Leave it.”
“No. Mercer left it unlocked. It’s connected to their network.” I don’t wait for his permission. I lunge for the desk.
I grab the laptop and yank the satellite cable free. I shove it into the inner pocket of my parka, zipping it tight against my ribs. A heavy, cold weight against my ribs, but it feels like leverage.
Boyd stares at me. His gaze narrows. He registers the defiance along with the logic.
“Move.” He shoves me toward the door.
We step out onto the catwalk.
The facility turned into hell.
The fire suppression system rains cold, dirty water down on everything. It mixes with the smoke from the skirmish on the main floor, creating a thick, gray fog obscuring everything. Strobe lights flash: red, white, red, disorienting the senses.
Gunfire erupts from below.
Crack-crack-crack.
Bullets spark off the metal railing inches from my hip.
I gasp, recoiling.
“Stay low.” Boyd grabs the back of my coat and shoves me down. We crouch behind the solid steel panel of the walkway. “Wraith.” He presses his headset mic. “Suppress the floor. I have the package. We’re moving to the roof.”
Below us, a rhythmic, heavy thudding begins. Precision fire. Someone is systematically eliminating the threats.
We move.
Boyd takes point. He moves in a crouch, his rifle shouldered, scanning the gloom. Predator in his element. He clears corners before I even see them. He checks the angles.
I follow him, gripping the back of his tactical vest. A clinician’s eye does its work.
The drag of his left leg. Blood, dark in the strobe light, soaking his right sleeve, dripping steadily onto the grating.
He hides it. I catch the hitch in his gait. The left leg, the one he favored in the woods, is worse. But there’s something else.
Blood.
Almost black in the strobe light, it soaks the sleeve of his right arm. It drips from his elbow, leaving a trail on the metal grating.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Keep moving.”
“Boyd, your arm?—”
“I said move.” He drags me forward.
