Page 65 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

Nothing. The channel is empty. The frequency that was clear seven minutes ago is a wall of white noise.

The silence pours into my skull like ice water.

The same silence. The same dead channel.

Kandahar comes back in a single frame: the ridge, the scope, the radio crackling to nothing while my men bled out in the valley below. The empty magazine. The hollow click of a firing pin striking an empty chamber while the people I was supposed to protect died one by one in the dust.

The paralysis lasts less than a second.

It's the longest second of my life.

"Wraith." Bronco's voice cuts through the radio. "You good?"

I'm not good. I'm the furthest thing from good that a human being can be while still operating a firearm.

The woman sleeping in my arms forty-five minutes ago is in danger, and I'm pinned on a jungle road by a containment force specifically designed to keep me from reaching her.

"The ambush is a diversion." My voice comes out flat. Controlled. The operator speaking while the man inside screams. "They're hitting the facility. Lily and Ivy are the target."

The radio silence from Bronco stretches for a beat. Two.

"Shit." One word. All the confirmation needed.

"Rook, abort the flank." I key the radio. "Get back to the vehicles. We're moving."

"Copy. Thirty seconds."

I'm done conserving ammunition.

I rise from behind the engine block and advance into the kill zone. The M4 barks in rapid succession—three, four, five rounds punching into the nearest concealed position. Bark and wood splinters explode from the tree trunk. A body tumbles from the elevated hide, crashing through the undergrowth.

Magazine three.

I push forward, crossing the open ground between the Hilux and the crater left by the IED. Rounds snap past my head—the sonic crack of supersonic projectiles splitting the air inches from my skull. I don't flinch. The flinch reflex died in the Kandahar desert, a lifetime ago.

Another muzzle flash. I pivot, align the chevron, and squeeze. The flash goes dark.

Bronco shifts the M249's fire to the remaining positions, the heavy rounds chewing through cover and concealment with indiscriminate fury. The belt-fed weapon is a blunt instrument, but blunt instruments win firefights when precision takes too long.

Magazine four.

Rook emerges from the ravine behind the last two shooters. His M4 cracks twice. The gunfire stops.

The silence that follows is heavy. The jungle holds its breath. Brass casings litter the mud around my boots, the spent brass steaming in the humid air.

I don't stop moving.

"Cipher, can you get the Hilux running?"

Cipher is already under the hood, his hands moving through the engine compartment by feel. "The IED shredded the right front tire and cracked the radiator. She's dead."

"Everyone in the Land Cruiser. Now."

We pile into Bronco's vehicle. I take the passenger seat. Rook drives. Cipher bleeds quietly in the back, pressing a bandage against the gash above his eyebrow with one hand and scrolling the tablet with the other.

"I can't reach Ivy on any frequency." Cipher's voice is tight. "Primary, secondary, and the emergency fallback channel are all dead. It's not jamming—the frequencies are live, but there's no response."

"How far to the facility?"