Page 54 of Reaper
The static hisses over the room speakers, thick, distorted, and agonizingly slow. I grip the back of a leather chair, my knuckles turning white as the blood drains from my hands.
"Overwatch, this is Actual." The voice is harsh, breathing heavily. "Package secured. Threat neutralized. We're ten minutes out from the rally point. Prepare the medical bay."
It's Flint's voice.
My breath catches sharply in my throat. The wordsthreat neutralizedecho in the quiet room. The broker is dead. Wyatt did what he set out to do. But the wordsprepare the medical bay,make my blood run cold.
Hawk holds the radio to his ear, listening to a secondary, encrypted transmission that doesn't broadcast over the room speakers. His expression gives absolutely nothing away. The hardened tactical operator remains entirely stoic, his jaw locked tight.
Every second that passes feels like a physical weight pressing down on my chest.
Hawk slowly lowers the radio. He meets my eyes across the room.
"He's with them." Hawk's deep voice softens just a fraction, a crack in the armor. "Alive, kickin' and cursing up a storm."
The relief hits me with the devastating force of a physical blow.
My knees instantly buckle. I sink heavily into the leather chair, burying my face in my trembling hands. A broken, ragged sob tears out of my throat. The agonizing tension that has held my spine rigid for two days shatters completely, leaving me hollow, exhausted, and shaking uncontrollably.
He's alive. He's coming back.
Ten minutes stretches into a lifetime.
I pace the corridor leading to the subterranean vehicle bay, unable to sit still for another second. The heavy rumble ofdiesel engines finally vibrates through the thick concrete walls of the safehouse. Tires crunch aggressively on gravel outside the reinforced, blast-proof bay doors.
CJ pushes through the double doors leading into the bay, moving with long, purposeful strides. Sam and Hawk follow closely behind him.
The vehicle bay is massive and blindingly lit by rows of heavy industrial halogens. Two matte-black Guardian SUVs sit in the center of the stained concrete floor. A third drives in, steam hissing violently from the radiator.
The heavy tactical armor plating is pockmarked with fresh bullet holes, and deep, jagged gouges mar the reinforced steel doors.
The heavy diesel engines cut off. The doors swing open.
Frost steps out of the driver's side.
He's covered head to toe in a thick layer of pale desert dust. Dark, wet blood stains the heavy canvas of his tactical plate carrier.
He doesn't look like the cold, emotionless, untouchable commander who stood in the motel parking lot two days ago. He looks exhausted. He looks entirely human.
CJ steps forward, offering his hand. Frost takes it in a firm, solid grip.
"Good to see you back in one piece." CJ scans the damage to the vehicle.
"Barely." Frost rolls his broad shoulders with a wince. "Ran into some heavy, entrenched suppression fire on the initial breach. Took us longer than I wanted to clear the courtyard. We burned down the house."
"I hear you picked up a stray on the way." CJ's eyes shift deliberately toward the back of the SUV.
The rear passenger door opens.
Wyatt steps out into the harsh fluorescent light.
My heart stops dead in my chest.
He looks like he walked directly through hell. The left sleeve of his dark jacket is completely soaked in dark, dried blood. A thick, black combat tourniquet is strapped high and tight on his bicep. His tactical vest is torn open down the center, the heavy ceramic plate beneath it shattered into jagged, useless pieces.
He moves slowly, agonizingly, his uninjured arm held tightly against his ribs. Every single breath visibly costs him, his chest heaving with the effort.
He stops leaning against the heavy frame of the SUV and scans the bay. His pale blue eyes pass over CJ, Sam, and Mitzy. He clearly recognizes the heavy hitters of Guardian HRS by reputation, but his gaze doesn't linger on them for a single, solitary second.
