Page 20 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

Hitters.

They're waiting for us.

Fallback Point Echo is a classified Task Force 9 safehouse. The coordinates are restricted, buried beneath layers of military-grade encryption. Only three people in the world know this location exists. Me. Hutch. And the Director.

The Consortium didn't stumble on this warehouse. They were given the coordinates.

There's a leak in Task Force 9.

A curse rips out of me. I slam my fist against the wheel.

"What is it?" Her voice breaks the silence, a sharp whisper cutting through the tension in the cabin. She's read the shift in my posture.

"We're compromised." I shift into reverse, the gears grinding. "They know about the safehouse. My team has a leak."

"Compromised?" She turns to face me, her green eyes wide, the terror returning. "You said this place was safe. You said this was off the grid."

"I was wrong." The rage is there, burning under the surface, but I don't let the betrayal cloud my judgment. This is no longer a standard extraction. We're running blind.

I slam my foot on the accelerator.

The sedan shoots backward, tires tearing through gravel and mud. I whip the wheel hard left, spinning us one-eighty in a J-turn.

The maneuver alerts the ambush team.

The warehouse doors crash open. Three Consortium hitters burst onto the loading dock, raising assault rifles. Automatic gunfire cracks through the storm.

Rounds slam into the rear of the sedan, shattering the taillights and tearing through the trunk.

"Get down." I roar it, shoving my arm across the console and pressing her down into the passenger seat as a bullet shatters the rear windshield, showering the cabin in glittering glass.

I floor the accelerator. The V6 screams in protest as the sedan launches forward, tearing back down the narrow service road. The shooters pour fire into the storm behind us, muzzle flashes strobing in the dark.

We clear the access road, diving back into the labyrinth of the industrial district.

Four fast turns break line of sight. I don't stop driving until we hit the congestion of the main highway, blending the bullet-riddled sedan into the anonymous flow of Bangkok traffic.

The silence returns to the cabin, broken only by the rain whipping through the shattered rear windshield.

"What happened?" She pushes herself up from the seat, brushing glass from her leotard. Her hands are shaking. "Who were they? How did they know we were coming?"

"Task Force 9 has a leak." The words grind out of me. "The Consortium has access to our secure comms. They have our safehouse coordinates."

"So we have nowhere to go." She sinks back against the seat, and for the first time the disciplined line of her spine gives, her shoulders folding inward.

"Negative." I adjust my grip on the wheel. "We go off the grid. No secure locations. No military protocols."

I take the next exit, diving back into the neon-soaked underbelly of the city. We navigate a maze of narrow alleyways, avoiding the main avenues and the police presence.

I pull the shattered sedan into a flooded alley behind a building lit in aggressive neon. Pink and purple signs buzz in the rain, casting an artificial glow over the crumbling concrete.

A "short-time" motel. A seedy establishment built for anonymity. Cash only. No questions asked. No digital footprint.

"Wait here." I kill the engine.

I grab a stack of local currency from my rig, step out into the rain, and approach the bulletproof glass of the night window. The clerk doesn't look up from his phone. I slide the cash under the slot. He slides a brass key back.

I return to the sedan.