Page 141 of Agency

Ambyr

Morgan positioned the barrel of his Remington 870 inches from the door, his finger on the trigger.

My heart hammered like a sledgehammer against the rest of my organs, and I took deep, chest-inflating breaths to try and control the adrenaline pumping into my veins. This, right here, was the most dangerous part of any operation. The breach. The throwing open of the front door and turning the area out front into a kill zone.

And who was in that kill zone?

Yours fucking truly.

CQB is seventy-five percent having the balls to breach in the first place, twenty-five percent tactics. You either can handle the fact that you’re dancing on the edge between life and death, or you can’t.

In the past, I hadn’t cared. My parents were dead, and, at the time, my life post-service looked bleak. What else did I have to live for besides the mission, besides keeping my unit alive and fighting for the next day?

Now? Now, I wasn’t so sure. Not with Morgan standing across from me, and Andrew down in some hidden bunker, and Jericho riding herd on some crazy puddle-jumping evac pilot. I could have a life, here. I could have a life, and a purpose, and a kind of existence that was beyond what I was doing now. One where I began to right the wrongs I’d created in my life since leaving the service.

But, still, better me than Morgan going first through that door. Better me than any of them going first through that door. At least, if I was gone, they’d still have each other. They could still go off, live their lives, maybe create families of their own.

Goddamn, I should have shot that guy through the window. Would have, in fact, if not for my stupid promise to Jericho all the way back in Missouri. Of course, if I’d sniped him, this place probably would have locked down tighter than some beach critter’s sand-repellent anus. Then, we actually would have to use explosives to blast our way in.

Another deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

And another. In through the nose, out through the mouth, as I thought of my incessant, torturous training back at Fort Bragg. Hours and hours in the Kill House. Go hard; go fast; remove threats and clear the rooms; any room you leave behind is a room you need to reclaim.

Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

All in a matter of seconds, which seemed to stretch into a span of eons.

Morgan’s eyes, glittering with grim determination on this battlefield–rather than lust and promises of being a great fuck back in that shitty dive bar–flickered to mine.

This was what the last week had been leading up to. This was fucking go time. One door, maybe two, then we’d have Management exactly where we wanted him.

I nodded.

Morgan’s finger went down to the trigger.

“Hey, what’s that?” Movement inside, and one of the guys was speaking. “Alert on the phone. Sandra or Sharon or whatever need to come up?”

My eyes went back to Morgan’s. He must have heard, and his eyes went to mine.

“Her break’s not for another… Fuck… Hour?” Another man. One with a deep, gravelly voice that seemed younger, nowhere near the age of our target. That meant at least three combatants somewhere in the house, including Management.

At least.

“Better go check it out, then.” First guy.

“Pause the show?” Second guy. “Don’t want to miss anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, pausing the fucking show.” First, again.

A long pause, and no third voice sounded.

I canceled my breach order, and Morgan and I both stepped back from the door. Less than a second later, a deadbolt was flicking back, followed quickly by another. And then another.

Dropping his breaching gun to the side, Morgan brought up his primary weapon in a flash, his movements so smooth and skilled I almost forgot where I was and started getting even more excited for… other reasons.

The door began to come open.

A kick would have put me off balance and hindered my rapid entrance. And the first three rules of CQB were clear: surprise, speed, violence of action.