Page 88 of Echo: Burn
My fingers tighten on the console. I've euthanized dying animals with steadier hands than this. These aren't faceless enemies anymore. They're elite operators doing a job, following orders, probably believing they're protecting national security.
And I'm about to trap them in a kill box.
"Khalid, how's Odin?"
"Alert but holding position."
"I need him. Send him to the rear corridor. Have him take position behind cover, facing the entrance."
"What are you planning?" Kane demands.
"They're going to breach that door. When they do, Odin attacks and I reseal it. Trap them in the corridor where we have all the advantages."
"That's risky," Stryker says.
"Everything's risky right now." The eastern team sets charges. My finger hovers over the comm button. This is it. This is where I become someone who orders men to their deaths. "Tommy, be ready on those controls."
"Standing by."
The explosion blows the rear door inward. Smoke and debris billowing. The eastern team moves through—twelve men in tactical formation, weapons up, scanning for threats.
"Now!"
Tommy slams the blast doors shut behind them. Trapped.
And Odin is waiting.
The dog launches from behind cover, ninety pounds of trained aggression. He takes down the point man before they even register the threat. The man screams as Odin's jaws lock on his weapon arm. His rifle clatters away.
The corridor erupts in chaos. They're trying to engage Odin without hitting their own man. Trying to reorganize. Trying to understand what just happened.
"Khalid, you're up! Rear corridor—now!"
Khalid appears on screen, moving fast. He engages the trapped eastern team from the opposite direction. They're caught in a crossfire—Khalid from one side, Odin creating chaos in their ranks, nowhere to retreat because the blast door is sealed behind them.
Brutal. Efficient. Over in thirty seconds.
Twelve hostiles neutralized.
The feed shows twelve bodies. Twelve men who woke up this morning not knowing today was their last day. Twelve families who'll get notifications. Twelve lives ended because I made a call.
My throat constricts—the same feeling I had when word reached my dad was gone. The knowledge that some decisions can't be unmade.
"Jesus Christ," Mercer breathes over comms. "Remind me never to piss you off, Doc."
But there's no time to process. No time to feel. The southern team is still pushing hard against Mercer's position. The northern team is regrouping despite casualties.
"Movement on thermals," Tommy warns. "They're pulling back. Repositioning."
"For what?" The displays show a tactical shift I don't understand. Why pull back now when they have the numbers?
Then it hits me. Odin sees it too. His alert behavior changes from combat aggression to detection mode. He's alerting on chemicals.
My stomach drops.
"Tommy, where's our water intake?"
"Southwest corner, why..." His face goes pale. "Oh shit."
