Page 51 of Reaper
Frost pushes through the swinging doors.
The dining room is empty, a long mahogany table stretching across the center of the room. We clear the corners, moving fast and low, aiming for the arched doorway leading into the great room.
A heavy burst of unsuppressed automatic fire tears through the drywall above our heads.
Plaster and wood splinters shower down over us. The deafening roar of the rifle echoes through the tight confines of the hallway.
We drop instantly, pressing our backs against opposite sides of the archway.
"Two targets." Frost's voice is barely audible over the ringing in my ears. "Entrenched behind the leather sofas in the center of the room. Heavy automatic weapons."
I risk a quick glance around the corner. The great room is a sprawling expanse of Spanish tile and heavy furniture. The harsh, erratic sweep of Kade's laser sight cuts through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, but the angle is wrong. He can't get a shot from outside.
"I'll draw their fire." Frost checks his primary. "You flank right."
There's no time to argue. Frost doesn't wait for confirmation.
He pivots around the left side of the archway, his rifle spitting fire. The mercenaries instantly shift their aim, laying down a brutal wall of suppression fire that chews through the plaster and studs around Frost's position.
That's my window.
Pushing off the wall, I sprint across the open archway, diving behind a massive stone fireplace on the right side of the room.The pain in my ribs flares, blinding and white-hot. My vision swims, the edges turning dark and static.
I force the pain down. I grip the rifle, sliding along the rough stone of the hearth.
The mercenaries are focused entirely on Frost, their weapons hammering the archway.
Leaning out from behind the stone, I lock the optical sight onto the closest target. A single shot tears through the side of the mercenary's head, dropping him instantly onto the tile.
The second man spins, realizing the flank is breached.
Frost is already moving. He steps out from the archway, closing the distance in three massive strides. A three-round burst from his rifle catches the remaining mercenary squarely in the chest. The man collapses backward, his heavy weapon clattering onto the expensive rug.
"Room clear." Frost lowers his weapon, sweeping the dark corners.
"The broker is in the basement." My voice is rough, tasting of copper and dust. "Safe room. Standard Ares protocol."
Frost steps over the bodies, leading the way toward the central hallway.
The descent into the basement is steep. The air grows cold and stagnant, smelling heavily of damp concrete and ozone. My boots feel like lead. The adrenaline is burning off, leaving nothing but the raw, unfiltered agony of the cracked ribs and the gunshot wound.
We reach the heavy steel door at the end of the stairwell.
It's a vault door, built to withstand a siege. Six locking bolts anchor it to the reinforced concrete frame. A heavy digital keypad glows red in the dark.
"I need thirty seconds to bypass." Frost runs a gloved hand over the keypad housing.
"We don't have thirty seconds." I sling the rifle across my back and draw my combat knife.
Stepping past Frost, I wedge the thick, blackened steel of the blade into the microscopic gap between the keypad housing and the concrete wall. Driving the heel of my boot against the pommel, the heavy steel bites into the plastic. The mounting screws shear with a sharp snap.
The entire housing rips free, exposing a nest of colored wires and a primary power feed.
Reaching into the housing, my fist closes around the thickest cable. I yank it violently from the motherboard.
The magnetic locks disengage with a heavy, metallic thud.
Frost kicks the vault door open.
