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“Don’t.” Mac’s voice promises violence as he steps through the smoke, rifle trained on Bruiser. “Give me a reason.”
Bruiser moves. Bad choice.
The Rufi closest to him strikes, mechanical jaws clamping down on his gun arm. Bone crunches. His scream cuts off as Charlie’s boot connects with his jaw.
Brett and Jon sweep in, fire and fury, death incarnate. Bruiser’s buddy pisses himself, the stench mixing with gunpowder and fear.
Jon’s knife makes quick work of my restraints. Blood rushes back to my limbs. Fire races through abused muscles. Every nerve ending screams to life.
“Ember?” The word tears from my raw throat.
“Penthouse.” Jenny throws me a tactical vest. “Wolfe’s got her. But there’s more.”
My fingers work the vest straps. Broken ribs protest. A rifle settles into my hands, familiar and deadly.
“She made a deal.” Jenny’s words cut deep. “Traded herself for your freedom.”
The truth hits harder than torture. Mac shoves two magazines into my hands. The metal is cold against my palm.
“Bullshit.” The rifle comes alive against my shoulder.
“To save you,” Charlie whispers.
The rage builds. Hot. Savage. All-consuming.
“Blaze.” Brett steps forward. “You’re in no shape?—”
“Don’t.” One word. A thousand promises of violence.
Jenny signals the Rufis. Their sensors map the building. “Thirty-two hostiles. Heavy resistance ahead.”
“Formation Delta-Three.” Blood drips from reopened wounds. “Rufis take point.”
We move. Swift. Silent. Deadly.
The stairwell erupts. Muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness. Bullets ping off the concrete. Two Rufis leap, their weapons systems lighting up the confined space. Bodies tumble down the stairs, leaving crimson trails.
Third floor. Resistance light. Four hostiles. The team flows like water around obstacles. Mac takes two with precise headshots. Charlie eliminates the others.
Fifth floor hits harder. Shotgun blast nearly takes Brett’s head off. The Rufi unit beside him launches, mechanical legs propelling it into the shooter’s chest. Bone shatters. Arterial spray paints the walls.
Floor by floor we climb. Each level brings new threats. New bodies to stack.
Eighth floor—ambush. Flashbang blinds us. The Rufis’ thermal vision compensates. Their targeting systems find enemies in the chaos. The hallway becomes a charnel house.
My body screams with each movement. Torture wounds reopen. Blood soaks through my vest. The pain feeds the fury.
Twelfth floor tests us. Heavy machine gun fire pins us down. Jon takes a round in the thigh. Brett wraps it with a StatSeal bandage, and Jon soldiers on.
“Covering fire!” The words tear from my throat.
The team responds. Bullets saturate the enemy position. Three Rufis bound forward, drawing fire. The other three flank wide.
Charlie drags Jon to cover. He’s bleeding through the bandage. Her hands are slick with his blood as she worksa tourniquet. Mac and Brett push forward, their rifles never stopping.
The machine gun falls silent. Its operator stares with sightless eyes, throat torn out by mechanical jaws.
“Clear!”