Page 51 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

We might not be at a dead end anymore.

Maybe my father gave me a key.

13

The Heirloom

DAX

The glare of the tactical lights burns my retinas.

I step out of the secure room, pulling the rusted metal door shut behind me. The click of the latch echoes through the cavernous logging facility like a gunshot.

The crash is brutal. Three hours of detonation have left me hollowed out and compromised. The operator died on that bed. The man who walked out belongs to the woman still sitting on the edge of it.

I pull my damp shirt over my head, wincing as the fabric drags across the fresh scratches on my back. She didn't hold back. The evidence of my lack of control is etched into my skin.

My right hand forms a fist around the cold metal casing of the antique compass. Her father's heirloom. Maybe more. The Consortium doesn't burn a life to the ground over sentiment.

"Well." Bronco doesn't look up from his weapon. He sits on a rusted oil drum, cleaning the bolt of his machine gun, the sharp smell of solvent cutting through the damp air. "I guess she's not a liability anymore."

The mocking edge in my weapons specialist's voice grates against my nerves.

"Watch your mouth."

"Sniper's lost his edge. Never thought I'd live to see Wraith go down over a girl." Rook leans against the structural support pillar, arms crossed over his Kevlar. The point man's expression is unreadable, but the needle in his voice is sharp.

They're testing me. Probing the perimeter, searching for weaknesses. They know the discipline I've cultivated since Kandahar just evaporated in a cramped room with a rusted sink.

I cross the concrete floor in three strides and stop in front of Rook, invading his space. I don't raise my voice.

"She's off-limits. Her name doesn't cross your lips unless it pertains to the mission. Her status is none of your concern. You will treat her with the same respect you afford me. Is that understood?"

The silence stretches. Rook holds my stare, his dark eyes searching mine before a low chuckle breaks from his chest.

"Understood." He leans back against the pillar. "We'll be sure to address her as ma'am."

Bronco barks a laugh, racking the bolt of his weapon with a metallic clack. "Loud and clear. I'll even wipe the mud off my boots before I look in her general direction."

"Enough." Hammer doesn't look up from the demo bag. He's laying blasting caps out on a strip of felt, counting them, seating each one back into its foam cutout. "He's not compromised. He's motivated. There's a difference."

Bronco opens his mouth.

"I said enough." The caps go in one at a time. "You were both at my wedding."

Nobody has an answer for that.

They see right through the posturing—Hammer most of all, which is why he ended it.

I turn my back on them.

Cipher sits at the rusted metal workbench in the center of the facility, surrounded by cables and Pelican cases. The glow of three ruggedized laptops casts harsh shadows across his face. Ivy stands beside him, arms crossed, her focus locked on a scrolling wall of encrypted data.

I walk to the workbench. "What happened to my forty-eight hours?"

Ivy doesn't look up from the screen. "The one thing I've learned being around you heathens is you never wait for backup. So I brought it to you." She taps a key. "Hutch is pretending he knows nothing about this."

"He doesn't." I open my hand and drop the antique compass onto the metal surface.