Page 88

The minutes bled away, preparation a blur of gear checks, comms tests, and quiet looks between us—brothers who’d fought together, bled together, but never faced a shadow like this.
Hallie Mae’s face haunted me—her voice, soft and raw, begging me to come back for her dad’s funeral.
I’d sworn I would, but the promise felt heavier now, like a chain I might not break free of.
Doom settled in my bones, a cold weight that whispered this wasn’t just a fight—it was a reckoning, and we might not all walk away.
Midnight hit,and we moved.
The fleet cut through the Kiawah River, silent as death, engines muffled, black water swallowing our wake.
I crouched on the lead boat, scope up, the night sharp through my lens—stars bright, no moon, perfect for shadows like us.
Atlas’s team was inland, moving up the road on Kiawah, their marked signatures faint blips on my screen, courtesy of the CIA’s recon plane loitering high above.
Ryker’s boats hugged the river’s edge, three sleek crafts, eight men total, ready to storm the first house.
The Agency patched us into thermal imagery—crystal clear, like God himself was watching, drones feeding us every angle of Thumb Point’s sprawl. If only we could see inside those houses.
I scanned the peninsula, my rifle steady, the weight of it grounding me as I counted rooftops, windows, shapes that could be men or ghosts.
“Ryker, you’re clear to the first house,” I murmured into the comms, voice low, eyes glued to the scope. “No movement outside.”
“Copy,” he grunted, and I watched his team glide in, boats docking silent, men spilling onto the shore like ink.
Atlas’s voice came next, calm, steady. “Ground team’s in position. Holding five hundred yards out.”
“Eyes on,” I said, shifting my scope, catching their outlines—crouched, waiting, predators in the dark.
It could go like clockwork, clean and quick.
Easy.
Too easy.
My gut twisted, that doom clawing harder, and I tightened my grip, scanning wider, looking for what I’d missed.
Ryker’s team breached the house—silent, smooth, doors kicked in, flashbangs popping like firecrackers.
I watched through the scope, barrels flashing in the night, heard the chatter on the radio—sharp, controlled.
“Contact!” Ryker said, voice steady. “Four down, but— more coming!”
I snapped my scope to the adjacent properties—two teams, six men each, rushing from the shadows, converging on Ryker’s position like wolves smelling blood. Their shapes came and went as they ran down the heavily wooded street.
“Ryker, you’ve got at least twelve incoming,” I said, already lining up shots, crosshairs settling on the lead guy’s skull as he moved, finding his rhythm and matching it to mine.
Cracked off a round—clean, his head snapped back, body dropping like a stone.
Shifted, fired again—another down, but they were at the house on the point now, moving fast, pinning Ryker’s team in a barrage of fire.
“Atlas, move!” I growled, firing a third shot, catching a guy in the chest, his rifle dropped as he fell.
“On it,” Atlas said, voice steady, his team already breaking cover, charging down the road instead of sneaking through the trees to reinforce our brother.
I kept shooting—methodical, precise, each pull of the trigger a life snuffed out—but they kept coming, shadows splitting, spreading, like 77 had planned for this, waited for us to walk into their trap.
Ryker’s voice crackled, strained. “Pinned down—two wounded. If you’re gonna help, better do it soon.”