Rook was already moving.
Fast.
Controlled.
Terrifying.
“Tree line!” one of his operators shouted.
“Muzzle flash northwest ridge!”
Another shot cracked through the storm.
One of the convoy SUVs outside erupted with sparks.
The sniper wasn’t aiming at us anymore.
He was cleaning up survivors.
Rook’s steel-gray eyes hardened instantly.
“Mercer sent a kill team.”
“No shit,” Trigger barked from the floor.
Flick clung to my arm beside me, breathing hard.
“Frank…”
I looked toward the doorway.
Frank lay motionless in the mud twenty yards from the porch.
Blood washing away in the rain.
But something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
Rook saw it too.
“Hold fire,” he snapped suddenly.
Everybody froze.
Even the sniper fire stopped.
Rain hammered the roof.
Wind screamed through broken windows.
And then?—
Frank moved.
Barely.
But enough.
