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The fighting stops instantly. Soft Eyes releases Twitch, who crumples to the ground, gasping.
I slump back, heart racing. The brief window of opportunity slams shut. But now I know.
I know what I’m up against. When the time comes, I’ll be ready. One of the many things I learned on the streets is how to fight, and fight dirty.
“No problem,” Twitch mutters, shooting Soft Eyes a venomous glare before skulking away.
Bruiser’s gaze sweeps over us, lingering on Soft Eyes. “Get them cleaned up,” he grunts. “We move tonight.”
As he turns to leave, I catch snippets of a hushed conversation. “…new location… tighter security… big money coming in…”
My mind races, piecing together fragments of information. A plan begins to form, tenuous and desperate.
But it’s all we’ve got.
SEVEN
Blaze
Countdown to ZeroHour
The Guardian HQstaging area thrums with barely contained energy. We’re organized chaos, a dance of deadly precision. Weapons gleam under harsh fluorescent lights, and the air thickens with the scent of gun oil and anticipation.
My fingers trail over my gear, a ritual as familiar as breathing. Kevlar vest, snug against my chest. Thigh holster tight. Magazines nestled in place. Each piece promises protection or vengeance. The weight of it all grounds me, a constant reminder of the life I’ve chosen.
The Glock 19 slides into my hand, an extension of my arm. I check the chamber, muscle memory taking over. Fifteen rounds of 9mm, plus one in the pipe. Enough to start a war.
Or end one.
My backup piece, a compact Sig Sauer P365, nestles against my ankle. Insurance policy. Last resort. The cold metal comforting against my skin.
The team filters in, faces set in steely determination. Charlie’s usual spark is dimmed. Brett’s jaw is clenched tight. Even Jon’s easygoing demeanor carries a sharp edge today. The air between them crackles with unspoken tension.
Something happened.
Something they’re not talking about.
Mac lumbers in, his massive frame dwarfing the high-tech gear he carries. His prototype body armor is lightweight but rugged as hell. His hands, scarred and calloused, move with surprising delicacy as he checks each piece.
“You good?” I ask, catching his eye.
He grunts a sound that could mean anything, but there’s tightness around his eyes. The way his fingers linger on the St. Christopher medal at his neck gives me pause. He’s got a bad feeling about this one. That makes two of us.
“Alright, people. Gather ‘round.” Jenny’s voice cuts through the bustle, sharp as a whip crack.
We circle up, a pack of wolves ready for the hunt. Mitzy’s holo-display flickers to life, bathing us in an eerie blue glow. The warehouse materializes in a skeletal structure of light and shadow.
“Latest intel on our target.” Mitzy’s fingers dance across her tablet, graceful and sure. A 3D schematic blossoms before us, rotating slowly. “Three main entry points. Heavy security here, here, and here.” Red dots pulse ominously, like fresh blood spatter.
“That’s our way in.” Brett jabs a finger at the southwest corner, his voice tight with barely contained eagerness. “Least guarded, best cover.”
“You’re dreaming.” Mac’s rumble carries the weight of experience, of too many missions gone sideways. “That’s exactly where they’ll expect us. Northeast is our best bet.”
“And walk right into their crosshairs?” Jon scoffs, arms crossed over his chest. “No way. We go in from above. They’ll never see it coming.”
The argument builds, voices rising. Strategy dissolves into ego. I watch, letting them burn through the tension, but time’s ticking away. Every second we waste is another second Ember and Aria spend in hell.
“Enough.” My voice, low and sharp, silences the room. “We’re not going in blind. Mitzy, show us the thermals.”