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“Pfft, not even a fair fight.”Jenny’s voice is calm despite the news. “Delta team, regroup. Mac and I will flank left. Charlie, Brett, take the right. Blaze, Jon, push center. Stay sharp.”
My HUD erupts with a crisp overlay of the warehouse interior. Red dots swarm like angry hornets, outnumbering our blue markers three to one. The 3D rendering shifts as I move,updating in real-time with data from the bumblebees and Rufi units.
“Delta-Five, acknowledged.”I signal Jon to move up.
The warehouse erupts into chaos. Gunfire echoes off metal walls, creating a disorienting cacophony of noise. Shouts and screams mingle with the percussive thunder of breaching charges.
We move as one, a well-oiled machine honed by countless missions. Jon and I leapfrog forward, the Rufi providing covering fire. Jenny and Mac flow like smoke to our left, dropping tangos with surgical precision. Charlie and Brett mirror their movements on the right flank, their synchronized assault a deadly dance.
Red dots on my HUD blink out one by one, but the odds are still stacked against us.
We push forward relentlessly. Every step could lead us to a hostage, a life saved. But it’s slow going.
The warehouse is a vast, open expanse broken up by the hulking shadows of abandoned machinery. Rusted conveyor belts snake through the gloom, their metal teeth gleaming dully in our night vision. Massive drill presses and lathes loom like sleeping giants, creating a maze of industrial detritus.
The layout is treacherous, full of blind corners and ambush points. The air is thick with the stench of decay—a noxious cocktail of old grease, oxidized metal, and something fouler that I don’t want to identify. Every surface is a tetanus trap waiting to strike, jagged edges of broken machinery threatening to snag or slice with each movement.
Our Rufi chirps—movement detected. I gesture to Jon, and we take up positions on either side of a partially collapsed gantry. Three, two, one…
We burst through, weapons at the ready. The scene before us turns my stomach.
Wire cages, the kind used for fencing, are arranged in a crude semi-circle. My eyes lock onto the nearest one, and my blood runs cold.
Ember.
She’s beaten and bruised, huddled in the corner of her cage, wrists bound with Zip Ties, eyes wide with fear. Her vulnerability ignites something primal within me—a fierce, protective instinct that threatens to override my training.
In the cage next to her, a young man—barely conscious, curls in a fetal position. Another victim. Another complication. My jaw clenches. We’re not set up for multiple extractions, but we can’t leave anyone behind.
The knowledge that there might be even more victims settles like a lead weight in my gut. But seeing Ember like this—protocol be damned.
I approach her cage, the Rufi unit padding silently beside me. Its head swivels, scanning Ember, assessing for threats and injuries. The fear in her eyes intensifies at the sight of the robotic hound, but I can’t focus on that now.
I realize how I must look to her—a towering figure in tactical gear, armed to the teeth, with a robotic dog at my side. Not exactly the picture of a rescuer.
I do something I’ve never done on a mission before. I extend my hand, a gesture of trust, of humanity amidst the madness.
“Ember Winters?” I inject as much reassurance into my voice as I can. “My name is Blaze. I’m here to get you out.”
She shakes her head, struggling to find her voice. The Rufi moves in, its precision laser slicing through her bonds. I watch as relief and confusion war on her face.
The urge to protect and shield her from further harm is almost overwhelming, but we’re not out of danger yet. I force myself to focus on the mission, on getting her and the others to safety.
“We need to move. Now.” My voice is gruff with suppressed emotion. Jon takes up a defensive position, his rifle trained on the entrance.
I reach for Ember, and she hesitates for a moment before taking my hand. The instant our fingers touch, it’s like a jolt of electricity courses through me. Her hand is small and delicate in mine, yet there’s steel in her grip. It’s as if some cosmic tumblers have just clicked into place, and suddenly, the world makes a little more sense.
As I help her to her feet, something in her eyes doesn’t fit. Her fear there isn’t from her current situation. It’s older, more profound, a kind of bone-deep wariness that speaks of long-standing trauma.
I’ve seen this look before in rescued hostages, in women and children who’ve endured unspeakable horrors, but Ember’s only been here a day. This kind of psychological scarring takes time to form.
A chill runs down my spine as the implications hit me square in the face. Her file mentioned foster care, but this—this speaks of something far worse. My gut tells me there’s more to Ember Winters than meets the eye, and a part of me—the part that’s not focused on getting us all out alive—is determined to unravel that mystery.
I push these thoughts aside for now, focusing on the immediate situation. “Can you walk?” I gesture toward the exit.
Ember ducks instinctively as bullets whiz overhead. Smart girl. She’s got good instincts.
“Getting hot in here,” Jon shouts, unleashing a barrage of suppressive fire. The air fills with the smell of cordite as his rifle chatters, keeping the encroaching tangos at bay.