Page 34 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

I sling the canvas bag over my shoulder. I don't look back at the dark monitor.

"Lead the way."

9

The Revelation

DAX

The Bangkok upper market is a sensory assault of neon and noise.

We emerge from the labyrinth of the undercity into an explosion of torrential rain and chaotic foot traffic.

Tuk-tuks weave through narrow alleys, their two-stroke engines screaming over the thumping bass of street-side bars. The smell of frying oil and exhaust is suffocating.

A thousand blind spots. A thousand ways to die without anyone noticing until the rain washes the blood into the gutters.

I keep Lily flanked against the cinderblock wall of an electronics repair shop, my body a shield between her and the surging crowd.

She matches my stride, chin up. The paralyzing terror from the Grand Solarium is gone. The dancer who froze under the crosshairs has been replaced by a woman who bought off an armed data broker with a pair of flawless diamonds.

Her competence is terrifying. It strips away the clinical distance I need to do my job. It makes her a partner instead of a package, and partners get you killed.

We reach a rusted iron gate wedged between a noodle stand and a counterfeit watch vendor.

A faded sign in Thai marks it as a public storage lock-up. I scan the perimeter. Three locals smoking under a tarp across the street. Two tourists haggling over fake Rolexes. No obvious Consortium tails. No thermal drones.

I grab the iron latch and pull the gate open.

The storage corridor is dark, lit by a single flickering fluorescent tube at the far end. The air smells like rat poison and rust. Stacks of chain-link lockers line the walls, secured by heavy-duty padlocks.

"Lockbox four." I move down the corridor, counting the rusted metal tags.

I find it at the end of the row. Unlike the others, its chain-link door is fitted with a recessed, hardened-steel digital keypad. Task Force 9 standard issue—built to withstand a C4 charge and wipe its internal drives if tampered with.

I punch in the code Ivy gave us. Zero-seven-two.

The locking mechanism disengages with a satisfying clank. I pull the door open, reach into the darkness, and drag a tactical duffel bag onto the damp concrete floor.

I unzip the canvas.

The scent of gun oil hits my lungs. The scent of home.

The scent of war.

Inside, the cache is a masterpiece of lethal logistics. Two SIG M17 9mm pistols. An M4 with a collapsed stock and an optical sight. Four spare magazines for the rifle, six for the sidearms, suppressors and subsonic loads to match. A dozen flashbangs and two breaching charges. Two Kevlar plate carriers. Folded black combat shirts and two rain shells. A medical trauma kit. And an encrypted field pad sealed in a waterproof case.

"Is that enough?" Lily stands at my shoulder, looking down at the arsenal.

"It's a start." I pull the first M17 from the bag, eject the magazine, rack the slide to check the chamber, and lock it back. The action is glass-smooth. Pristine.

I hand her the first plate carrier and one of the rain shells. "Vest first. Pull the side straps tight—it has to sit flush against your ribs to spread the impact. Shell over the top."

She drops her gym bag and slides the vest over her shoulders. The armor is built for an operator, not a ballerina. It hangs loose on her frame until she grabs the straps and yanks them tight, the Velcro rip echoing through the damp corridor. The shell goes on over it, swallowing her to mid-thigh.

"Good." I pick up the second M17, cycle the action, and load a full fifteen-round magazine. I chamber a round.

I hold the weapon out to her, grip first.