Page 33 of Echo: Burn
"Execute," I say.
Rourke hits the back door like a battering ram. Through the window, I see Mercer coming out of the waiting room, weapon drawn, moving on Cray from the front while Rourke comes through the back. I'm moving before the wood finishes splintering, weapon up, angling for a shot that won't put Willa in the line of fire.
But Cray's faster than I expected. His arm snakes around Willa's throat, gun materializing in his other hand, muzzle pressed to her temple before I can acquire a target.
"Don't." His voice is calm, controlled. Professional. "Everyone stays exactly where they are, or the doctor dies."
Everything else disappears as I enter the clinic. All I see is Willa's face. The gun against her skull. Cray's finger on the trigger. One twitch and I lose her.
I can't lose her. Not like Morrison. Not like the men in Kandahar. Not her.
Mercer's in the hallway, weapon trained. Rourke holds at the back door. Through the window, I see Stryker's rifle scope catching light from across the street. We've got Cray bracketed, but he's got the one thing that matters.
"Smart move would be letting her go," I say. "You're outnumbered and outgunned."
"Maybe." Cray's arm tightens around Willa's throat. "But I've got leverage. Lower your weapons or I paint these walls with her brains. Your choice."
I force my voice steady, commanding. "Willa, when I say go, drop. Don't think. Just drop."
Her eyes find mine. I see the fear there, but I also see trust. She's going to do exactly what I tell her, even though every survival instinct must be screaming at her not to move with a gun to her head.
That trust terrifies me more than the gun.
Cray's talking to Rourke now, negotiating terms that we all know are bullshit. He's not walking out of here. This ends with him dead or us dead. Those are the only options.
I watch his eyes. His trigger finger. The subtle shift in his stance as he prepares to move.
Now.
"Go."
Willa drops like her legs vanished. I'm already firing—three suppressed bursts center mass. Cray must have body armor on as he spins to return fire. Rourke's faster and hits him with another suppressed round punching through his chest. The gun falls from Cray's hand. He collapses, blood spreading across the clinic floor.
"Clear," Rourke says.
"Clear," Mercer echoes.
I'm moving before conscious thought processes the order, dropping beside Willa where she's hit the floor. My hands find her shoulders, checking for injuries, for blood, for any sign that Cray's bullet found her.
My voice comes out rough. "You okay?"
"Yeah." She's shaking now, adrenaline crash hitting hard. "Is he...”
"Alive." Rourke's already checking wounds. "Barely. We need medical."
My brain shifts into tactical mode. Cray knows things—Committee operations, Protocol Seven targets, maybe even where they're storing the chemical weapons. He's worth more alive than dead but bringing him to Echo Base is a calculated risk. If he escapes, if he survives long enough to report back, we're compromised.
But we need what's in his head more than we need to stay invisible.
"Tommy, prep the med bay at Echo Base. We're bringing him in." To Willa: "Can you walk?"
She nods. Mercer helps her up while I coordinate the extraction. The suppressors bought us time—the shots sounded like doors slamming, nothing that would immediately trigger 911 calls. But someone will have heard something. We've got minutes, maybe less.
By the time local PD gets the disturbance call, we're ghosts—Cray secured, scene staged to look like a robbery gone wrong, team dispersed.
I pull up in the SUV and guide Willa into the passenger seat. She's still shaking, still processing what just happened. Cray tried to kill her. Would have killed her if she'd hesitated even a second when I gave the order.
The thought makes me want to hit Cray with another round—this one through his skull.
