Page 144 of Into the Fire

The driver drew his gun, stepped out, and immediately lost half his skull.

The man in the passenger seat peered into the side mirror an instant before it was sheared off by the next sniper round. Panicking, he flung open the door and dove for the restaurant. Another round whined in.

He was dead before he struck the ground.

The sidewalks erupted with panic. Commuters left their cars in the middle of the street. Pedestrians shouted and headed for cover, washing through the abandoned vehicles to the safety of the surrounding buildings.

Inside the van the six remaining operators kicked through the damaged bulkhead partition, crawled to the front, and spilled from the doors. They fanned out, carbines at the ready, a strike team unleashed.

Evan cycled the rifle, ejecting the brass. He eased out a breath through his teeth. Heart rate—normal. Body temperature—normal. Hands—steady.

Eye back to the scope. A breeze riffled his hair. Cries carried up to him from the street. Mia came into view below, running into the chaos.

His view was blocked by panicked civilians. But there were slivers between the rush of bodies that let him see through to the operators readying for battle.

No margin for error.

He would have to be perfect.

He emptied his lungs once more. At moments like this, the voice inside his head was Jack’s.

Don’t think about Mia.

Don’t think about Peter.

Don’t think about anything that matters.

A simple process.

Track. Exhale. Squeeze.

Repeat.

Mia sprinted toward the crash, sobbing with fear, dread, rage. People were surging away from the van, banging into her, knocking her back against the tide.

She tripped, bloodying a knee, but kept on.

She emerged from a clot between abandoned cars and saw— finally—what everyone was running from.

A formation of heavily armed men, spread in a V-formation, advancing directly at her. They were a half block away, the van that held her son at their backs. It was shoved crookedly through the restaurant’s window, hoisted higher on one side from the impact. One of the men rolled his neck, another shook out an injured arm. They readied their rifles.

Mia braced herself.

And sprinted directly into their midst.

There was no way she wouldn’t be killed.

And yet.

She floated through the fray untouched.

A man spun to aim at her and was ripped out of sight as cleanly as if he’d been lassoed by a passing truck, his dome cracked from a V split of a round.

The operator behind him caught a faceful of bone fragment, pounding him into the asphalt.

A third lunged as she neared and took a bullet to the neck.

She sprinted through the blood and death to her son.