Page 19 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

We were boxed in. The Consortium patrol was sweeping the perimeter, tactical flashlights cutting through the rain, closing on our position.

I pulled her into the cramped recess between the dumpsters. I pressed her against the damp brick, covered her lower face with my hand, and lowered my head to simulate two lovers in the dark.

A standard evasion tactic. A mechanical illusion designed to misdirect the enemy.

She ripped my hand away.

Leaning into the illusion wasn't enough for her. She took control of it.

She grabbed the soaked fabric of my combat shirt, her small hands stronger than they had any right to be. She pulled me down, rose onto the tips of her sneakers, and pressed her lips against mine. She climbed my frame like a feral cat, wrapping one leg around my waist, anchoring her body flush against my Kevlar plates.

Nothing simulated about it. A desperate, feral assault.

The taste of rain, copper, and heat flooded my senses. For a fraction of a second, a decade of stoic discipline shattered.

I responded.

My hands dropped to her hips, fingers digging in, pulling her tighter. The reality of her body against mine, the raw desire in her kiss—for one breath, the patrol didn't exist.

If they had looked closer, they'd have seen no illusion. Just a man consumed by the woman in his arms.

I tear my gaze from the rearview mirror and force my focus back to the wet road ahead.

I have to shut it down.

I'm a weapon. An instrument of violence, deployed to execute one objective. Not a man. I can't afford the luxury of human emotion. Proximity is a liability. Attraction is a death sentence.

I take a hard right, the sedan's tires screaming against the slick asphalt as we dive into the narrow network of secondary roads leading toward the industrial district.

"Fallback Point Echo is three miles out." My voice comes out rough. The briefing pushes the alleyway back into the dark corners of my mind. "Abandoned manufacturing warehouse. Fortified. Multiple egress routes. We secure the location, I treat this wound, and I contact Command."

She doesn't answer. The compass turns over and over in her fingers, one slow rotation for every mile, her eyes never leaving the window.

The industrial district spreads ahead, a bleak expanse of rusted corrugated steel, broken concrete, and silent smokestacks. The rain is heavier here, turning the unpaved access roads into rivers of black mud. The neon glow of the inner city is gone, replaced by the sporadic glare of flickering halogen streetlamps.

I pull the headlight fuse and navigate the last half-mile in darkness, relying on ambient light and my memory of the area.

Fallback Point Echo is a two-story concrete warehouse at the end of a dead-end service road, surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence topped with rusted razor wire. Isolated, defensible, off the grid.

I ease the sedan down the final stretch, tires crunching against the gravel, and tap the brakes. We creep to a halt fifty yards from the main gate.

Something is wrong.

Instinct flares. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The air feels heavy, coiled.

I shift into park, leaving the engine idling. I draw the handgun I scavenged from the stairwell and rest the cold frame against my thigh.

I lean forward, squinting through the rain-streaked windshield.

The main gate is secured. The padlock is intact. The warehouse sits dark, an abandoned monolith against the storm.

But it isn't empty.

A sliver of blue light flashes against the second-story window. Not a reflection from the storm. The glow of a tactical tablet screen.

I snap to the shadows near the loading dock.

A matte-black SUV sits deep in the alcove, hidden from the main access road. No plates. Tinted windows.