Page 41 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

I push my door open and step out into the jungle. Mud sucks at my running shoes. The darkness is solid, pressing against my eyes.

I leave the ghost of Arthur Masters in the rusted truck. I rack the slide of my anger, chambering the betrayal, the fury, the loss of the man I thought I knew. I turn the trauma into a weapon and follow the sniper into the darkness.

We have a compound to burn.

11

The Shift

DAX

The iron drainage grate is buried under wet leaves and rotting debris, rusted shut by decades of jungle humidity.

I drop to a crouch in the mud, jam the blade of my combat knife into the gap between the concrete housing and the corroded rim, and lean my weight onto the hilt. The iron groans. My muscles burn. Then the rust seal shatters, snapping the grate free with a metallic scrape that makes my teeth ache.

I drag the grate aside—eighty pounds, flaking rust across my gloves—toss it into the weeds, and slide feet-first into the black of the drainage pipe.

The smell assaults the back of my throat. Stagnant rainwater, decaying vegetation, the chemical bite of raw sewage. I pull the flashlight from my rig and switch it to a low red beam, cutting a narrow path through the dark. The pipe is three feet in diameter, forcing my frame into a combat crouch that ignites a burn in my thighs. The darkness presses in from all sides.

Lily drops into the tunnel right behind me.

She lands in silence, her running shoes soundless against the slick concrete. No complaint about the smell or the walls pressing in. The ice-cold focus she found in the cab of the truck holds.

"Stay close." My voice is a whisper against the damp walls of the pipe.

"Always." The response is immediate. A vow.

I push forward.

We navigate the pipe for sixty yards, moving beneath the eastern perimeter wall of the compound. The sound of the jungle fades, replaced by the rhythmic thump of boots on the ground above us. A guard patrol. Two men. Their cadence is relaxed. Nobody expects a breach from the drainage system.

The tunnel ends at a vertical access shaft. A rusted steel ladder leads up to a maintenance cover.

I sling the M4 across my back, draw the suppressed M17, and climb the ladder, stopping one rung from the top. I press my shoulder against the underside of the iron cover, brace my legs, and push upward with slow, controlled pressure.

The cover lifts half an inch.

I peer through the gap. The compound courtyard is lit by harsh halogen floodlights. The rain is still falling, casting long shadows across the asphalt. I have a clear line of sight to an armored transport truck parked near a loading dock.

A single guard stands ten feet from the maintenance hatch. He holds a compact submachine gun loosely across his chest, facing away from my position, smoking a cigarette, one hand rising now and then to slap at the biting insects.

I lower the cover and look down at Lily.

"One sentry. Directly above us."

She nods once and raises her weapon.

I shove the iron cover off the shaft. It lands on the wet asphalt with a muffled thud.

The guard spins around.

He never gets the chance to raise his weapon.

I surge out of the hole and fire two suppressed rounds. The thwip-thwip of the subsonic ammunition is barely louder than a staple gun. Both rounds impact center mass.

The guard collapses, hitting the ground like a sack of wet cement.

I haul myself out of the shaft, grab the dead man by the collar of his vest, and drag him behind a stack of shipping pallets, out of sight of the main courtyard.