Page 11 of Crossfire Creek Siege

That was both a blessing and a curse.

The attackers couldn’t see them clearly, but that also meant Rena couldn’t see them. Every sound—the clatter of a rifle stock, a boot scuffing the floor, the faint static hiss of someone’s radio—made her spine go rigid.

She kept one hand on her Glock, the other tracing the wall as they worked their way along the edge of the hangar toward the back. Somewhere behind them, one of the laser vests flickered, a dying pulse of red that made her heart leap before she realized it was only a game light.

“Almost there,” Gage murmured, his voice a low rasp she barely heard.

She nodded, eyes straining through the haze. The rafters loomed above, the disco ball catching a glint of light, just enough to mark their destination. If they could make it up there, they’d have the high ground. Maybe a chance to see who was leading this nightmare.

Maybe even a chance to fight back.

They reached the back wall, her lungs burning, her clothes streaked with dust and sweat. The sounds in the hangar had thinned to a dangerous quiet. Occasional movement, the whisper of boots sweeping the open floor. Rena pressed her back to the cold metal paneling and scanned upward.

A set of climbing ropes hung loose from an overhead rig, left from a training obstacle. Perfect. Or close enough.

Gage caught her eye, gave a short nod, and grabbed the nearest rope. It swayed under his weight as he hauled himself up, his movements steady despite the injury that had cost him half his strength. Rena watched his silhouette rise through the drifting smoke until he reached the first beam.

Then it was her turn.

Her fingers burned as she pulled herself up, every muscle in her shoulders and back screaming. The rope bit through her palms, and the lingering haze from the flashbang made her depth perception swim. But she climbed anyway. Slow, controlled, silent.

She’d trained for worse, she reminded herself. But training didn’t come with the metallic taste of fear in your mouth or the knowledge that kids were hiding somewhere below.

When she reached the rafters, Gage was already moving forward, keeping low, the beam beneath him creaking faintly. He extended a hand to steady her as she shifted from the rope to the narrow metal bar.

She crouched behind him, eyes sweeping the dark space below. The hangar stretched out in gray layers of smoke and shadow, broken by the faint gleam of the birthday candles near the collapsed cake table. Movement flickered here and there. Shapes shifting, men sweeping the area, their voices murmuring low and deliberate.

Gage motioned for her to follow, then started crawling along the beam. Rena stayed close, every nerve raw with tension. The beam was slick, and each inch forward was a balance between silence and survival.

From this height, the world felt fragile. One wrong move, one misplaced breath, and the whole hangar would know exactly where they were.

Rena’s pulse thudded in her throat, the only sound she could really hear over the dull roar in her ears. She was just behind Gage, every muscle locked tight as they crawled along the beam. The air was thick with dust and smoke, the flicker of candlelight barely enough to define the darkness beneath them.

Then, out of nowhere, a scream split the silence.

High, sharp, terrified. A girl’s voice. God. It was one of the kids.

Rena froze. The sound hit like a gunshot itself, slicing through the dark. Across the hangar, a shadow shifted. One of the men below jerked his head up, scanning. His night vision gear glinted faint green as he turned toward the sound.

Toward them.

“Shit,” Gage hissed, barely audible.

Rena saw the moment it happened. The man pivoted, rifle swinging in their direction, boots crunching on shards of glass scattered from the skylight above. Her stomach knotted. She reached for Gage, her hand gripping his calf hard enough that she felt the tremor in his muscles. She whispered his name, but the word was lost in the sharp, percussive crack of gunfire.

The suppressor muffled the shots, but not the impact. Bullets tore into the partition below them, sparks spraying from the metal as chunks of debris flew. Someone screamed. A kid again. Another voice answered, higher, raw with fear.

And just like that, everything broke.

Muzzle flashes strobed the darkness, the air erupting with the sound of gunfire. Two more figures stormed in from the loading bay, rifles already blazing. The noise was deafening, a wall of sound that turned the hangar into an echoing nightmare.

Below, one of the kids bolted from hiding. Just a blur of motion, running for the side exit. A burst of gunfire tracked him across the floor. He went down hard, sliding into a tool cart that toppled over with a crash. Rena wasn’t sure if he’d been hit or just fallen.

She prayed it was the latter, that he hadn’t been hurt.

The vibration traveled up the walls and into the rafters. The beam beneath Rena shook. Gage lost his grip, just a slip, but enough. He dropped several inches, catching himself with his good arm, boots scrambling against the slick metal.

His Glock slipped from his waistband. Rena watched helplessly as it spun end over end, a flash of matte black tumbling through the air, before it hit the concrete below with a sharp clatter.