Page 57 of Striker
“What’s your position?” Rogue asked.
“Loading dock’s secure. Moving up on the west.” He climbed the stairs, his footsteps light to pad his ascent.
“Lobby’s clear,” Reaper reported. “Three hostiles removed. Coming up the east stairwell.”
They passed the first floor, then the second.
Adrenaline covered Atlas’s skin in a cold sheen as he reached the top of the building. “Hold,” he breathed to Viper, the command unnecessary but automatic.
On the top landing, he glued his spine to the wall. Viper stood in the same position on the top step. Wrapping his fingers around the doorknob, he pulled open the door an inch. The metal hinges groaned and he froze, his heart pounding.
When no gunfire exploded, he peered through the crack. The door opened into a short hallway containing men’s and women’s washrooms across from each other. Beyond the hall was a wide-open area with desks stationed around the center of the room. Another short hallway, the mirror image of where he stood, was on the other side of the space.
Inching into the hall he stayed close to the wall, his rifle high and his finger locked on the trigger.
Warning stung his spine. Rex was here somewhere. Had to be.
Viper moved at his side. Atlas flicked his gaze to his friend and instantly read his uncertainty.
“It’s a fucking setup.”
Viper’s words shook him with the force of an earthquake. If Harry was compromised, they were fucked.
No, it couldn’t be. Rex was in a weakened state. A lot of his men had gone down over the last couple of days. If he suspected Phantom Ops was close, he’d be on the move. Atlas held up his fist at a ninety-degree angle, signaling Viper to wait.
Movement across the floor caught his eye. The east stairwell door was opening. Rogue, decked out in tactical gear, moved into the hall, the rest of the team at his back.
Atlas took three big steps forward and halted at the end of the hallway, scanning the rest of the space. To his right was a huge window that spilled yellow light from a streetlamp into the room and sent eerie rectangular shafts over the floor.
To his left, at the far end of the room, was a closed door with a large window covered in blinds. Angst made the old injury on his thigh ache. Instinct told him something was off. No voices, no movement . . . but a light shone through the blinds. No shadows, no sound.
Viper’s earlier words filled his head.
It’s a setup.
“Hot spot.” Rogue’s warning came through his earpiece, telling him his boss recognized exactly what he did.
But they couldn’t turn and leave. Couldn’t back out. Not until they’d secured Rex or confirmed he’d fled.
Setup or not, goddammit.
Sweat rolled down the back of his neck, and droplets of unease moistened his brow as well. “On your go,” he whispered to Rogue.
His finger grew heavy on the trigger, ready to blow apart hostiles. He watched Rogue say something to Havoc and Reaper. The two men moved out of the hall and circled the perimeter to ensure no one hid beneath a desk.
“Clear,” Reaper said.
Rogue gestured toward the office, signaling for them to move out. Atlas peeled his back from the wall. Cold air washed over his spine without the compression. Tucking his chin low and raising his weapon to his shoulder, he swept into the open area, heading toward the boardroom.
Viper fell into step beside him. Reaper, Havoc, and Rogue closed in at their six. They spread out in a semicircle, keeping a good ten feet from the door.
“On your go,” Atlas repeated, waiting for Rogue’s cue.
“Go.”
Atlas took three strides forward, lifted his foot, and booted in the door. The flimsy wood jumped open. He strode into the boardroom and his team flanked him.
The room was still. A bright fluorescent light warmed the already stuffy space. The pungent, tinny scent of blood hung like a cloud around his face. His gaze landed on the only form in the room.
