Page 4 of Striker
“Mine,” Viper said, veering in that direction.
“Capture the target,” Rogue said. A reminder before anyone got trigger-happy.
They wouldn’t leave a single guard alive.
A sliding glass door on the east wall of the house came into view. Atlas pressed his back against the side of the house and waited a few seconds for Rogue to fall into the same position on the opposite side.
He peeked into the door. Vertical blinds blocked most of his view, but one broken slat allowed him to see into a bedroom.
The bed appeared empty. He pulled on the door handle, but it didn’t budge. “Ready?” he whispered into the mic.
Rogue held up his fist. “All in position?”
“I’ve got eyes south,” Havoc said.
“East ’n’ south’re in my scope,” said Wraith. “Move in.”
“Go.”
Atlas aimed at the door and fired. Glass shattered, the sound as loud as an explosion. He leapt through the opening, his boots crunching on the debris. Moving swiftly, he cleared the space. His NOD illuminated every dark corner of the empty room.
He strode with Rogue at his side. The bedroom spilled into a hallway. He paused at the door, the laser on his weapon pointing toward a living room. He stepped out of the room.
Crack, crack, crack!
Bullets smacked into drywall near his head. He spotted the shooter ducking behind a couch. He returned fire and was rewarded with a pained cry.
“Viper, what’s your status?” Rogue demanded.
“One guard outside is dead. Negative contact on target.”
“Nothing on my end,” said Havoc.
Atlas bounded across the living room, scanning the space that opened into a kitchen—both empty except for the injured fuck. He reached the back of the couch. A young dude in a bulletproof vest was bleeding from his shoulder. Not their target.
Atlas kicked the rifle from the man’s hand. “Where’s your leader?”
“F-Fuck you.”
“Not on my agenda,” he said wryly. “Where is he?”
The man spat. The bloody saliva missed Striker’s boot.
Rogue came around the sofa and put a bullet in the guy’s head. “Keep going,” he ordered.
Movement at the corner of his eye made Atlas duck. Rogue followed suit. Fire erupted.
“Hostiles, south!” Rogue shouted.
Atlas shrunk low. Their enemies were stationed down the hallway. He inched closer to the edge of the wall and peeked around the corner. “You got eyes?”
Rogue was crouched low behind the shelter of the couch. “Hostiles are guarding what looks like a bedroom. No clean shot.”
Atlas dug into the pack at his waist and pulled out a small device. “Incoming smoke grenade,” he told Rogue. He flipped off his NOD and clipped it to his belt before removing a half-face respirator and positioning it over his nose and mouth.
He pulled the pin on the grenade and hurled the bomb down the hallway.
Kaboom!
