Page 43 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

"Stay down." I press her back behind the steel frame, one hand heavy on her shoulder. The volume of fire is too high, the angle too tight. Peeking around that corner is a death sentence.

I roll out from behind the frame and fire a sustained burst down the dark corridor, aiming at the muzzle flares. Two targets drop in the first three seconds.

The remaining mercenaries adjust, concentrating their fire onto my position.

Concrete shatters around my head. A stray round grazes the Kevlar plate on my chest with the blunt force of a sledgehammer. The impact knocks the wind out of my lungs.

I duck back behind the ruined frame, drop the empty magazine, slam a fresh one into the mag well, and rack the bolt.

Pinned down. Outnumbered. Deteriorating by the second.

Two magazines left. Sixty rounds against a squad of trained military contractors.

Icy dread settles into the pit of my stomach. The nightmare, repeating. The empty magazine. The overwhelming odds. The people relying on me to keep them alive.

"Dax." Lily grabs my shoulder, her fingers digging into the nylon of my vest.

I look at her. The fear is gone from her eyes. She looks at me with terrible clarity. She's ready to die. She accepts the outcome.

I refuse it.

I raise the rifle, ready to step out and draw their fire. Thirty seconds for her to run. A fraction of a chance. The last thing I have left to give her.

An explosion rocks the foundation of the building.

The western wall of the cell block blows inward, spraying chunks of reinforced concrete across the corridor. A jagged hole opens in the wall, exposing the driving rain and the black night beyond. The shockwave knocks me off my feet and throws me against the opposite wall.

The suppressing fire down the hall stops.

The mercenaries shout in confusion, turning their weapons toward the breach.

Suppressive fire pours through the hole. The rounds are precise, disciplined, military-grade.

A silhouette steps through the smoke and settling dust.

He fills the hole he just made. The initiator is still clipped to his chest rig, a shotgun riding on a single-point sling. He clears left, clears right, and moves aside to let the corridor fill in behind him.

Hammer.

"That her?" Boyd Vance doesn't wait for the answer. He posts on the corner and puts two rounds down the hallway.

The second man through carries a customized light machine gun. He walks straight into the line of fire, laying down a sustained barrage that sends the mercenaries scrambling.

"Get up, Wraith. You're late to your funeral." A booming roar over the gunfire.

I stare through the settling dust.

Bronco.

The Task Force 9 weapons specialist grins at me through the smoke, the muzzle flash of his machine gun lighting his scarred face.

Rook comes through third, flanking the corridor and dropping three armored mercenaries with a suppressed submachine gun before they register his presence.

"Automated defenses are offline. Ivy cracked the metadata remotely." Cipher's voice crackles over Rook's radio. "Killing the courtyard floodlights now. Move."

I'm not alone.

Hutch ordered me to wait forty-eight hours for the blind drop. They came in less than one. They crossed a compromised grid and risked their lives to pull me out of the fire.