I trust him.
“Bravo, advance on my mark,” I say.
“Copy,” Niko answers. Familiar. Calm. “Moving.”
The markers shift, and timers tick forward. For the first stretch, the comms stay clean. There’s no chatter beyond necessity, and the feed holds steady. The British lead glances at me once, gives his brief approval, then returns to his screen.
This is how it’s meant to go.
Then an anomaly appears.
It’s a tiny flicker at the edge of the map that doesn’t match expectations. Too smooth to be wildlife, and too inconsistent for interference. It’s definitely not enough to trigger alarms, but it’s enough to sit there and bother me. I flag it straight away. “Check left sector. Possible unaccounted presence.”
Niko comes back without hesitation. “Visual unclear. Terrain’s tighter than mapped.”
I reroute another unit slightly wider, adjusting for the compression. It’s a small change and the sort you make automatically if you’re doing your job properly.
This is what comms is for. Catch it early. Keep it manageable.
Seconds pass, then Niko’s voice changes. “Contact left.”
I don’t look up. “Confirm numbers.”
There’s a short pause, long enough to start alarm bells in my head. “Heavier than expected,” he says. “This wasn’t on the brief.”
I’m already moving markers, already shifting the map in my head faster than the screen can keep up. “Hold position,” I say. “Do not push. Support en route.”
It is the right call, I know it is, but the problem is time; it never behaves the way you want it to. I’m used to staying in front of any issues, but this time I’m already running behind.
Then gunfire cuts across the channel.
“Bravo,” I say. “Fall back. Anchor on—”
“I can’t,” Niko cuts in, his breathing audible now. “We’re pinned—”
The signal distorts and static frays at the edges of his voice. “Niko— Bravo,” I say again, sharper. “Fall back. Support is moving.”
There’s a delay, a second, then two. “Caiden—” the sentence breaks in the middle.
Then there’s static.
An open channel.
Then silence.
I wait for a few seconds for it to come back. I wait for breathing, a correction, absolutely anything. But nothing comes. My thumb presses into the console hard enough the plastic cracks under my thumb. “Niko, respond,” I say, but he doesn’t answer. I start reaching for alternatives immediately. It’s just interference, terrain shadow, equipment failures even.
I keep talking because stopping would mean admitting I’m already too late. Orders, redirects, and extractionwindows that weren’t meant to be used yet. Every possible explanation is looping in my head.
My voice stays level while my thoughts start firing off in a dozen different directions. I should’ve widened the approach sooner. I should’ve challenged the mapping again. I should’ve— “Niko, come in,” I say again, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
Another unit fills the channel with a status report, and the operation keeps moving.
Then I get the confirmation.
“K. I. A.”
For a second, those three letters don’t compute.
