Page 27 of Hollow Trace

Quinn shifted, looking more than a bit stiff. “I’ve got an idea how to get us out, but they’ll pick us off like flies if we can’t mask our presence.”

“Where’s a good Mylar blanket when you need…” Scout paused, her gaze drifting toward the trailers. “Wynn? You said that medical unit had freezers, right? And tanks on the end?”

Wynn nodded, looking as if she regretted the movement a second later. “I counted three Dewar tanks in a metal cage on the hitch. Why?”

“Because I think I know how to help us disappear.”

Wynn furrowed her brow, then inhaled. “No.”

“But it should work.”

“Sure, but they’re double walled. The chances of piercing them without having a ricochet peg you in the leg…”

“The regulators are made of brass.”

Wynn scrubbed a hand down her face. “Let’s say you succeed. That vapor’s heavier than air. It’ll bleed out all the oxygen inside the warehouse in a matter of minutes.”

“We just need enough time to get out.” She nudged Quinn, flashing him a smile. “Assuming Quinn’s idea is sound.”

Quinn balked. “That’s hurtful.”

Scout staggered to her feet, still searching the room for any hint of blue from the watches as she glanced at Quinn. “Get ready to execute whatever you’ve got in mind. Pretty sure you’ll know when to move.”

Quinn hooked her arm. “You’re not going alone.”

Coulter stood. “I’ve got her back, brother. You focus on whatever harebrained scheme you’ve cooked up so you’re ready once those tanks purge.”

Quinn narrowed his gaze but didn’t comment, using the forklift to stand. “I’ll be ready. Don’t fucking drag your asses.”

Neve shifted forward, made a few hand signals, then laid down a stream of cover fire, eating up the concrete between them and the trailers. The mercenaries returned fire, muzzles flashing in the dark, the men dispersed into two distinct pockets. What looked like them flanking the team’s position, just like Scout had been worried about.

Scout stayed low, leapfrogging from one barrel to the next, Coulter guarding her six. She angled right, watching for enemy fire as she darted to the last pillar between her and the trailers.

The medical unit sat on a forty-five, the tanks angled slightly away from her. While she considered herself an exceptional shot, she couldn’t hit what she couldn’t see.

Coulter stopped behind her, rifle at the ready. “Well, that’s a bugger. Whoever takes the shot will need to be standing in the middle of the damn kill box in order to see the regulators.”

“Murphy’s Law, I suppose.” She looked back at him. “I’ll go. You keep our friends busy.”

Coulter hooked her arm. “I should go.”

“I’m smaller. I’ll be harder to hit.”

“Not when you’re serving yourself up like that.”

“I’m also lighter. We both know you can carry me without breaking a sweat. You’ve got at least a hundred pounds of muscle on me. I’d likely have to drag you if you got hit.”

“Or you leave me behind — ensure everyone else gets out.”

“Screw that. I might not have been special forces, but I still uphold the creed. I’m not leaving you behind.” She handed him one of her spare mags. “So, you don’t run out. And feel free to use extreme prejudice if they get ballsy.”

Scout readied her rifle, met Coulter’s uneasy gaze, then dove across the floor, popping up dead center of the room, nothing but open space surrounding her. Coulter’s rifle barked out rounds behind her, the steady thut echoing through the cavernous warehouse. She peered through the scope, exhaled, then released three trigger pulls, clipping the brass fittings in perfect succession.

The metal shattered, pieces ricochetting off the wall, as the resulting catastrophic failure caused a high-pressure blowout. The escaping gas ripped through the room, roaring like a jet engine. Coulter stepped forward, attempted to draw some of the men’s focus as she turned, took a step. The first round caught her center mass, jerking her back, purging the air from her lungs when the second clipped her ribs, knocked her off her feet.

The impact threw her onto her back, the resulting momentum carrying her several feet across the cement floor, her gear squeaking from the friction. Pain pulsed through her chest then into her ribcage, the increased pressure darkening her vision at the edges.

Coulter was at her side a heartbeat later, grabbing the handle on her vest and dragging her clear, still firing with his other hand. The liquid nitrogen hissed out of the tanks, condensing the moisture in the air and dropping the temperature twenty degrees.