Page 35 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

She stares at the black metal. Her breathing hitches. She's willing to jump rooftops and bribe criminals, but a loaded weapon is a different threshold to cross.

"Take it." I keep my voice flat. "You're walking into a fortified Consortium compound. I can't cover all three hundred sixty degrees of the operational theater. You need to be able to defend yourself if a hostile breaks my perimeter."

She extends her hand. Her fingers wrap around the textured polymer grip.

"Your grip is wrong." I step into her space. The distance vanishes. The scent of her—rainwater and something impossibly sweet—overpowers the gun oil.

I wrap my hands over hers.

My skin burns where we touch. The contact is electric, a spark in the damp corridor. I force the sensation down, burying it beneath a decade of conditioning.

"High and tight." I guide her dominant hand higher on the backstrap. "The recoil will snap the muzzle up. If there's a gap between your hand and the slide, you lose control of the weapon. Wrap your left hand around the grip, fingers overlapping. Thumbs forward."

She adjusts. Her muscles are tense, rigid as coiled wire.

"Keep your finger off the trigger until you intend to destroy the target." I guide her index finger to rest flat against the frame. "The safety is off. The weapon is hot. If you pull that trigger, something dies. Understand?"

She looks up at me. Our faces are inches apart. Her green eyes are dilated, wide and searching in the flickering fluorescent light. The fear is there, but beneath it is a burning resolve.

"I understand." Her voice is steady.

I step back, severing the contact before it compromises me. "Holster it. Keep it under the shell until we hit the tree line."

She slides the weapon into the holster attached to the vest.

I turn back to the duffel. I shed my plate carrier long enough to drag one of the black combat shirts over my head—the first clean fabric against my skin since the motel sink—then seat the armor back over it and cinch it down. I strap the drop-leg holster to my thigh, slot the second M17 into place, and secure the M4 across my chest on a tactical sling.

I load the spare magazines into the chest rig pouches. The familiar weight of the gear settles over my shoulders, grounding me. The sniper's detachment returns, filtering the world through crosshairs and kill zones.

I reach into the bottom of the bag and pull out the waterproof case.

"What's that?" Lily leans in over my shoulder, one hand still worrying a vest strap.

"Intel." I crack the seal and extract the encrypted field pad from its charging cradle. "Ivy sent the tracking metadata for the armored van. We need to analyze the target architecture before we breach."

I boot up the device. The screen flares to life, prompting for biometric authorization. I press my thumb to the scanner. The Task Force 9 encryption protocols clear, opening a secured dashboard.

Ivy sent more than coordinates. She sent a full operational dossier.

I tap the screen, opening the satellite imagery of the target.

The compound is a fortress carved into the Thai jungle. A ten-foot concrete wall topped with razor wire surrounds a central manor and a series of low industrial outbuildings. One access road winds through the mountains. Thermal imaging shows a rotating patrol of twelve hostiles and automated sentry turrets mounted on the perimeter walls.

A suicide run for a lone operator.

I swipe past the tactical diagrams and open the financial metadata Ivy pulled from the shell corporation that owns the land. If I'm going to breach a Consortium stronghold, I need to know who's writing the checks. I need to identify the high-value targets inside the wire.

The shell corporation is listed as Apex Logistics Solutions. Registered in Macau.

I scroll through the board of directors. Dummy names. Forged identities.

I open the routing ledger, tracking the offshore accounts that fund the facility's electrical grid and private security payroll. The money moves through a labyrinth of Swiss accounts, crypto wallets, and Cayman Island holding companies. A masterpiece of financial obfuscation, designed to be untraceable.

But Ivy is better than untraceable. She dug into the root architecture of the Cayman holding company and pulled the primary authorized signatory.

The name flashes on the screen in bright green text.

Arthur Masters.