Page 11 of Echo: Spark
"Contact left!" I call out, putting controlled pairs into a figure trying to flank Stryker's position. "Two more, elevated position, northwest loading dock!"
My former colleagues' voices crackle over their tactical radios, familiar tones discussing my death with professional detachment. Gunfire tastes like iron in my mouth. The smoke stings my eyes and gives the world a yellow edge. Concrete vibrates under my boots from impacts that arrive like distant thunder made personal.
Martinez, Chen, Volkov—men I've operated with across three continents, bled with in foreign soil, mourned with when operations went sideways and good people died. Now they're here to kill me for choosing a dead boy over Committee interests and operational necessity.
Khalid stays tight to my shoulder, his small frame pressed against a concrete cover. He's got one of his throwing knives ready—perfectly balanced steel that I've seen him put through throats at twenty feet. The boy has developed into a weapon under my tutelage, shaped by necessity and survival intosomething that would make ancient assassins proud. But this isn't his fight. Not yet.
Mercer's crossbow whispers death from his elevated position, the nearly silent weapon speaking in languages older than gunpowder. One figure drops, bolt through the neck, arterial spray painting abstract patterns on warehouse walls. Another stumbles, leg pierced, his tactical advance disrupted by pain and impending shock. The man fights like smoke given form, every movement economical and deadly.
Stryker's controlled bursts keep the rear exit clear while Kane coordinates the retreat with the calm efficiency of someone accustomed to impossible odds. His weathered face remains impassive as he processes multiple tactical problems simultaneously—wounded team member, compromised position, superior enemy forces, limited ammunition and escape routes.
“Moving!” I guide Khalid through the maze of storage containers, following routes I’d mapped within minutes of entering the warehouse. Always know your exits—Committee rule number one, drilled into every operator until it becomes instinct deeper than breathing.
Rodriguez's voice echoes through the warehouse with the amplified authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. "Stand down, Rourke! You know how this ends!"
"Yeah," I calculate out loud, voice flat as a scalpel, putting two rounds through a shadow trying to circle our position. "With you explaining to Morrison why you lost an entire team to a burned asset and a bunch of betrayed operators."
The warehouse fills with smoke as tactical grenades deploy in overlapping patterns, professional obscuration that speaks to extensive urban warfare training. I taste the familiar cocktail of chemicals designed to disorient and blind, but I knowthe playbook better than my own reflection. "Thermal optics incoming! Displace, now!"
Mercer drops from his perch twenty feet above, landing softly despite the distance. The man moves like smoke given form, already adapting to the tactical shift with preternatural awareness. Kane appears through the haze like a specter, Tommy and Sarah with him. She's barely conscious, blood seeping through fresh bandages that speak to recent trauma and ongoing medical crisis.
"This way." Mercer takes point without hesitation, leading us through smoke and shadows. "Prepared route."
We move through the artificial fog, Khalid's small hand finding my tactical vest to maintain contact. Behind us, boots thunder on metal stairs as the assault team adapts to our movement. Professional voices call out grid coordinates, closing the net with methodical precision that speaks to extensive training and combat experience.
A figure materializes through the smoke like a demon from my operational past. Martinez, rifle already rising toward center mass, finger finding the trigger with practiced ease. I put him down with two to the chest, one to the head—the Mozambique Drill, same technique he taught me in a Kandahar training compound a lifetime ago. His eyes register betrayal and disbelief in the split second before the light goes out, before fourteen years of partnership and shared dangers end in blood and necessity.
Another ghost from my past falls, another bridge burned in service to a cause I barely understand. But Khalid lives, and that's all that matters in this calculus of violence and survival.
Mercer leads us through a concealed gap in the warehouse wall—paranoid preparation paying dividends when paranoia becomes justified. Fresh Montana air hits like salvation after thecordite and smoke. Trees ahead promise concealment, vehicles beyond offer escape. Almost clear of the killing ground.
Gunfire erupts behind us as they discover our exit route. I turn, walking backwards, laying down suppressive fire while the others run for the tree line. Khalid refuses to go ahead, matching my pace step for step with the stubborn loyalty that defines his young life.
His small hand finds my elbow; he does not flinch when rounds crack close. He is not steel; he is the reason I stepped off the line and into the world that still has light.
"Go!" I shove him toward Kane.
"Together or not at all!" He says it in English, clear and determined, words that speak to bonds forged in shared trauma and mutual dependence.
A round sparks off metal inches from my head, another tugs at my jacket sleeve. But we're in the trees now, pine branches offering concealment if not cover. The helicopters thunder overhead, searchlights probing through the canopy for clear shots that would end this chase permanently.
Mercer's Land Cruiser sits beside two other vehicles, engines already running in tactical readiness. We pile in—Kane driving with the calm competence of someone accustomed to impossible escapes, Stryker riding shotgun with weapons ready, Tommy and Sarah crammed in the middle row, Mercer and Khalid and me compressed into the back like refugees fleeing a war zone.
"Hold on." Kane floors the accelerator.
The warehouse explodes behind us in a pillar of fire and smoke—Mercer's work, probably rigged the moment he arrived with the professional paranoia that keeps operators alive. The pressure wave rattles windows as we tear down the logging road, leaving fourteen years of my service burning in our wake like a funeral pyre for the man I used to be.
Khalid's shoulder presses against mine, solid and real and alive. Safe. That's all that matters in this equation of sacrifice and survival.
One file is wrong—the coordinates for a depot are off by six miles. Kane spots it instantly, forced to call it out in the middle of the firefight. The reminder hits hard: even allies can be a liability.
Kane's hands never miss a beat, but the mistake costs us a hair of time. That hair is the difference between a clean extraction and someone getting left behind. We pay attention to small errors. We survive because of them.
"The drive," I tell Kane between the vehicle's lurching progress over rough terrain. "Everything's on there. Morrison's entire chemical weapons program. Names, dates, locations, test results from a dozen villages turned into killing fields."
"Why should we trust Committee intel?" Stryker asks without turning around, his voice carrying the flat suspicion of someone who's learned that information is just another weapon.
"Because I killed three former teammates to get it to you. Because I burned every bridge and severed every tie to deliver those files intact."
