Page 73 of Heist in Paradise

“Alpha?”

“Clear,” I grunted out, my voice hoarse, my mask hot and sticky on my face.

“The alarm’s been raised,” Zola said, trying to maintain her calm. “Ginger, Scooby—go in, go left. Hurry, or you’ll be caught in the open.”

“Roger.”

I knelt and searched my dead mark. His gun was semiautomatic; his gear was low-quality—not a valuable asset, then. With a sneer, I fingered around his bleeding skull, finding the small radio device in his leaking left ear. Carefully, I wiped it clean on my chest and slotted it into my other ear.

My brain scrambled at the immediate flood of foreign voices and shouted commands. The two frequencies—my crew and the enemy—disoriented me so much that I had to take a step back and find my equilibrium. The loudest, most pressing noise won out.

“…girls…ambush, si! Come, come quickly!”

“…shoot on sight!...”

“¡Sí, girls! Shoot them!”

My heart stopped. Then, a pulse of pure, animalistic terror took over.

Ripping out the foreign bud from my ear, I clenched my weapon and sprinted down to the basement. Sensing my urgency, or perhaps tracking my movement on the monitors, Zola snapped: “Alpha? What’s happening?”

“They’re taking out the girls.”

Zola sucked in a sharp breath. “Shit.” Fingers clacked on keys. “That’s why they changed course—shit, shit. Scooby, Ginger, pull back. Find the girls. Alpha—”

“Coming.” I pushed myself harder, taking the stairs four at a time, slipping on blood and dye and whatever else was left behind in the ambush.

The basement looked like an alien threw up all over it—splatters of pink and green neon dye all over the walls and ceiling, bodies sprawled like chunks on the floor. I didn’t stop, launching over the corpses and lunging down the dark tunnel, relying on memory alone.

The sound of rapid gunfire echoed around me. Callum was breathing heavily in my ear—Nate was suspiciously silent. Not them, not them, not them.

Snarling, I swung around the corner, my gun raised. But it was too dark—bodies moved intermittently against the flashing backdrop of gunfire, indistinguishable. Dangerous. I growled in frustration, the sound tearing from my throat.

Fuck.

Pain lanced through my forearm as metal pinged beside me, a bullet ricocheting. I needed cover. Shoving my shoulder into the nearest door, fingers slippery on the latch, I wrenched it open and stepped inside. There was a tiny startled sound. I spun, finding a shivering form on the bed.

My anger, momentarily dulled by the panic, became fucking nuclear.

“It’s okay,” I said gruffly, not moving, trying not to spook. I knew I looked like a nightmare—masked, bloody, eyes wild and hungry beneath my sweat-slick hair. The girl made no other sound, trained to be quiet.

I took a deep, fortifying breath. I was going to murder these fuckers.

When I spoke, my voice was flat and controlled. “Crows, find cover. Nova, turn on the lights.”

Zola launched into action. “Roger, Alpha. Sunshine is headed to the fuse box.”

Five heartbeats later, the lights blinked on unceremoniously, a muted yellow like rot that filled the cell around me. I purposely didn’t look at the girl, keeping my eyes trained on the door.

The gunfire ceased abruptly. Marks were exposed in the open. I called for Callum and Nate, and they responded in tired chirps.

Alive, alive, alive.

There was no time for relief.

I dug into my pocket and pulled out the palm-sized metallic egg. Visibility was both a blessing and a curse. My mind crunched over the numbers—six hostiles, two dead in the basement, one upstairs, three remaining.

“One left,” Callum corrected me, half-imbedded in my thoughts, tuned with the same battle instincts. “Bastard’s locked himself in a cell. He’ll take the hostage.”