Page 57 of Cipher: Lethal Algorithm

The SUV breaks traction, tires screaming against the asphalt as Wraith forces a controlled slide. The lead truck clips our rear quarter panel instead of T-boning us. The impact shatters the back window, throwing me against the door panel. My arm locks over Ivy, pinning her down in the seat to shield her from the rain of breaking glass.

Metal grinds on asphalt. The SUV slams into the dirt shoulder and stalls.

Eight operatives pour out of the utility trucks. They take angles instantly, trying to establish a perimeter around our crippled vehicle before we can react.

They’re heavily armed, wearing dark tactical gear.

Wraith kicks his door open before the dust settles. He takes the physical threat head-on, returning fire with the MP7 in short bursts to suppress the approaching shooters.

“I’ve got the line. Clear the package. Go with her, Cipher.”

I look at Ivy. Her hand clamps securely over her jacket where the HSM rests, her other hand gripping the Glock. Her eyes are sharp, calculating the trap right alongside me.

Go with her.

I evaluate the brutal reality of the ambush. Eight shooters against one man on an open road. If I leave Wraith, they’ll overrun his position in sixty seconds. He’s Boyd’s best hammer, but no one survives an eight-to-one disadvantage in a blind crossfire.

If Wraith falls, the remnants of the squad will run Ivy down in the woods before she covers half the distance to the airfield.

I have to hold the line so she can run.

“Take the tree line.” I shove the passenger door open, providing cover fire with my SIG. “Run straight south. The airfield is exactly a quarter mile down the ridge. Do not stop. Do not wait for me. Give the contact the drive.”

She grabs my shirt. She doesn’t argue the tactical logic. Instead, she yanks me down, crashing her mouth against mine. It’s a bruising, desperate collision over the deafening crack of incoming fire—a terrifying finality.

I crush my mouth to hers for one burning second, memorizing the heat of the contact, before breaking away.

“Go.”

I push her out the door. She hits the dirt, scrambles up the embankment, and vanishes into the thick foliage.

I pivot and join Wraith at the front of the vehicle, locking into the grim reality of the firefight.

A volley of automatic fire shreds the hood of our SUV. I drop low, bracing my forearms against the engine block. I track the muzzle flashes cutting through the black air.

Eight shooters. Four advancing on the left flank, trying to pinch us against the embankment. Four holding the center line behind the utility trucks’ reinforced doors.

“Left flank.”

“I told you to take a hike. You’re ruining my kill ratio.”

“It’s eight to one.”

“Exactly. I want them all to myself.”

I lean out, firing three rounds in rapid succession to center mass on the lead operative pushing the left vector. The man goes down, his weapon skittering across the pavement. His partner breaks cover, scrambling for the ditch. Tracking the motion, I isolate the target and fire again. He crumples into the dirt.

Wraith holds the center line. His weapon punches through the noise in short bursts. Four shooters behind the utility trucks drop, eliminated before they can establish an angle.

The final two operatives abandon cover, laying down suppressing fire to fall back into the darkness of the access road.

We split the difference. Wraith tracks the runner on the right; I take the left.

Two simultaneous shots crack through the night air. The final threats drop instantly.

The gunfire abruptly stops, leaving only the hiss of our wrecked radiator. The suppression takes exactly four minutes.

“I’m going after her.”