Chapter 8 - The Stairwell Breach
The footsteps weren't casual. They were rhythmic, heavy, and synchronized—the unmistakable cadence of trained operators moving in a wedge formation.
“Down!” I hissed, grabbing Chloe by the shoulder and dragging her behind the heavy wooden kitchen island just as the first round tore through the apartment’s wooden door.
Crack-crack-crack.
Splinters of oak and drywall exploded across the entryway, chewing up the hallway wall where Chloe had been standing two seconds prior. A silenced weapon. Professional grade.
“They tracked the envelope,” Chloe whispered, her eyes wide with terror as she covered her mouth to stifle a sob.
I didn't hesitate. I pulled my sidearm from the hidden tactical lockbox beneath the counter, checking the magazine with a practiced click. I had left the active-duty uniform behind, but the reflexes of the 75th Ranger Regiment never rusted.
“Stay down, keep your head below the granite counter, and do not move,” I ordered in a flat, hard whisper.
Another volley of suppressed gunfire chewed through the lock mechanism, and the front door swung violently inward. Two men in matte-black civilian tactical gear stepped across the threshold, their weapons raised, moving with lethal efficiency as they swept the living room.
The lead operator stepped past the sofa, his infrared scope scanning the darkened corners.
I didn't wait for him to clear the kitchen.
Vaulting over the back of the island, I closed the distance in a fraction of a second. Before he could pivot his barrel, I drove the butt of my sidearm squarely into his tactical helmet, spinning him into the wall with enough force to drop him instantly to the floor.
The second operator spun around, his weapon tracking toward me—
Bang.
A single, perfectly placed round caught his thigh, dropping him to one knee with a sharp cry of pain before I kicked the carbine out of his grasp and slammed the heavy iron heel of my boot against his chest, pinning him to the hardwood.
Silence descended on the apartment once more, broken only by the ragged breathing of the wounded operator on the floor and the distant wail of a city siren outside.
I stood over him, my pistol leveled at his forehead, my breath steady.
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“Who sent you?” I demanded. “Apex? Or Grant Bennett?”
The operator coughed, a thin line of blood spilling across his teeth, but a dark, chilling smile twisted his lips. “You’re too late, Commander. The package... the girl... she was just a distraction. Look at your phone.”
