Page 150 of Only the Wicked

“Fifty-one percent now,” Reid announces, gaze directed at Daisy’s laptop screen. “At this rate, we’ll have everything in about twelve minutes. Not your little trap. The real thing. Right Daisy?” If she could shoot fire from her eyes, he’d be crispy. “After that, well…” Reid shrugs. “We’ll have what we need. We can safely exit.”

The implication hangs in the air like a death sentence.

I discreetly angle my phone, aiming to ensure the GPS signal stays strong. Every second we’re here, KOAN is getting closer.

The movement draws Reid’s attention. “You dumbasses didn’t take her phone? Get it from her. We’ll need to drive it back to DC. Did you check him? This can’t be the last location their phones ping.” He runs his hands through his hair, scanning the warehouse. He doesn’t look pleased.

An armed man steps up behind me, hand out for my phone. Another man approaches Rhodes, presumably to check him for a device.

The lights go out all at once.

Dim light filters through the yellowed skylights above.

The two men closest to us pause, lifting their holstered guns. They step back, keeping us in clear line of sight while scanning the warehouse.

Hurried footsteps mix with Reid’s profanity.

Emergency lighting kicks in three seconds later, bathing everything in an eerie red glow.

“Contact left!” one of the mercenaries near the containers shouts, but his voice is cut short by the distinctive sound of a suppressed rifle from the upper level. The mercenary who’d been reaching for my phone drops immediately, his sidearm clattering across the concrete floor.

The warehouse erupts into chaos. Muzzle flashes strobe from the mezzanine. Two mercenaries by the loading docks return fire while Reid and another gunman take cover behind Daisy’s chair—using her as a human shield. I grab Rhodes’ hand and we dive behind the shipping pallets to our right. Cover. We’re unarmed. Gaining cover is priority. From here, we have a clear line to the laptop table, about thirty feet of open ground.

“Stay low,” Rhodes whispers, then pulls out what I now realize isn’t just a phone—it’s a tactical communicator. “ARGUS, emergency protocol seven-seven-alpha.”

“Rhodes, what are you?—”

“Activating kill switch for all external access,” he says into the device. “Authorization: Icarus-One-One-Seven.”

Here we are in the middle of a firefight, and he’s in command, cutting off access to ARGUS remotely, mitigating risk should they succeed in eliminating us.

He crawls to the edge of our cover and retrieves the pistol from the downed mercenary, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency before returning to position.

A figure drops from the rafters directly above Dristol. It’s Jake, moving like a shadow despite his bulk. He lands behind the container where Dristol took cover, cutting off his retreat to the main entrance.

“Sydney!” Rhodes shouts over the gunfire from our position behind the pallets. “The table—Daisy! The laptop!”

Lives first. Mission second. Equipment last. Daisy’s hunched in the chair, positioned dangerously in the open.

I sprint across the open space in a diagonal line toward Daisy’s position, using shipping containers for cover against the mezzanine shooters. Rhodes covers my advance with a pistol he grabbed from the first downed mercenary, positioning himself at the corner of our pallet barricade. Apparently, there’s more to the tech genius than meets the eye.

One armed mercenary, crouching near a cabinet, swings his weapon toward me. I see the muzzle tracking my movement and realize my current path puts Daisy directly in his line of fire behind me. I dive left toward a concrete support pillar instead, forcing him to reposition and giving Rhodes a clear shot. Two rounds center mass, and the threat drops.

“Nice shooting,” I gasp, sliding behind the table where Daisy sits zip-tied to a metal chair.

“High school rifle team,” he says grimly. “Some skills you don’t lose.”

Daisy’s eyes are wide but alert—no signs of head trauma or shock. Good. Her wrists are secured behind the chair with heavy-duty zip ties, ankles bound to the chair legs.

“You okay?” I shout, scrambling to pull a tactical knife from the waist of a downed mercenary.

"Peachy,” she says, eyeing my stolen knife. “Hands first. Circulation’s going.”

I work the knife blade under the zip tie around her wrists, angling it away from her skin. The plastic is thick—industrial grade—but the blade is sharp. It takes precious seconds of sawing before the tie snaps.

Daisy immediately brings her hands forward, flexing her fingers as I move to her ankles.

“Laptop,” she says urgently. “Reid was trying to?—”