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My gut twisted, but I didn’t stop—couldn’t, not with the fight still alive, my brothers’ voices crackling through the comms.
“Pinned down,” Ryker barked, voice strained. “Taking heavy fire.”
“Closing from the southeast,” Atlas said, steady but tight. “Hold tight.”
Marcus’s laugh cut in, reckless, wild. “This is my kinda party!”
I sprinted, trees blurring, the house looming—a squat, modern slab, windows shattered, muzzle flashes strobing like a nightmare.
The comms cleared, voices sharp, and it was bad—Ryker’s team bleeding, Atlas too far, Marcus still cutting through the chaos.
I pressed my mic, breath ragged. “Sniper coming in from objective.”
“Get here,” Ryker snapped, gunfire drowning his words, a scream cutting through—ours or theirs, I couldn’t tell.
Two 77 guys burst from the shadows, running toward the fight, rifles pointed toward my brothers.
I dropped to a knee, aimed, fired—two quick bursts, heads snapping back, bodies crumpling before they knew I was there, blood misting the night.
Moved again, heart pounding, the M4 steady in my grip, the comms alive with voices—Ryker cursing, Atlas calling targets, Marcus whooping like a maniac.
I hit the house’s perimeter, ducked behind a low wall, and nearly ate a bullet—friendly fire, one of our guys, eyes wide as he recognized me.
“Noah—shit, sorry!” he shouted, waving me through, his face smeared with dirt and blood. He had his leg propped to one side, a hasty tourniquet wrapped around his thigh.
I vaulted the wall, ran past, and found Ryker—crouched behind a shattered column, blood streaming from a gash on his cheek, but grinning like he’d been born for this shit.
“Nice of you to show,” he said, popping off a shot, a 77 guy dropping across the yard, rifle skidding into the dirt.
“Fuck you,” I said, sliding in beside him, firing at a shadow creeping near the porch—another down, clean, his body folding like a ragdoll. “Thought you had this handled.”
He laughed, grim, ducking as a round cracked thecolumn, chips flying. “Yeah, well, these assholes brought friends, and cousins.”
I glanced right, where Atlas’s team was supposed to be, and Ryker nodded that way. “He’s over there. Marcus just linked up with him. Crazy bastard’s having too much fun.”
“What’s the play?” I asked, firing again, dropping a guy who’d poked his head out too far, blood spraying the man behind him who ducked down in response.
Ryker leaned in, voice low, just for me. “Shoulda brought more men. Whatever 77’s got here—stockpile, armory, fuckin’ army—they keep pouring out like roaches. Basement’s a clown car.”
I checked my mag—half-full, two spares—and fired at another shadow, his scream cut short as he fell. “Call it, Ryker.”
His eyes met mine, hard, knowing, the weight of it settling between us. “All out. No holding back.”
I nodded, decision made—same breath, same blood, like we’d been forged for this moment.
“New plan,” Ryker said into the comms, voice sharp. “All out, ten seconds. On my mark. Hit ‘em hard, boys.”
“Copy,” Atlas said, calm as stone, gunfire popping through his line.
“Let’s fucking go!” Marcus added, his glee slicing the static, wild and unhinged.
I braced, counting down in my head, the M4 steady, my pulse a war drum in my ears.
Ryker said, “Mark.”
Ten.
The night was alive—gunfire, shouts, the air thick with smoke, blood, and the stench of adrenaline.