Page 62 of Echo: Burn
I pull out my tactical display, calling up the tunnel schematics I've memorized living on this mountain. Three natural choke points. Two ambush positions. One collapse zone that could be triggered if necessary.
"Here's what we're going to do," I tell Willa, already moving to position. "They're going to come in hard and fast, expecting us to be disoriented from the grenade. Instead, we're going to be waiting at the first choke point. You take high position on the left outcrop. I'll take low position on the right. Crossfire pattern. Anyone who comes through that entrance gets caught in the kill zone."
"How many do you think are left?"
"At least six. Maybe eight." I check my ammunition. Four magazines plus one loaded. Not great. "Tommy, you reading me?"
Static. The explosion must have damaged my comm unit. We're on our own.
"What about extraction?" Willa asks. "Even if we hold them off, we can't stay here forever."
"We don't need forever. We need thirty minutes. Tommy will send Stryker and Mercer when we don't report back. Standard protocol—if a team goes dark, backup moves in after thirty minutes."
"Thirty minutes." She checks her own ammunition. Three magazines. "Against trained mercenaries in a tunnel we can't escape from."
"Thirty minutes to prove you can do this." I meet her eyes. "To prove you belong on this team. Because if we survive thenext half hour, Willa, you're going to have earned your place in a way nobody can question."
She squares her shoulders. Nods once. "Then let's get to work."
We position ourselves at the choke point—natural formation where the tunnel narrows to barely three meters wide. Perfect killing field. Anyone coming through has nowhere to hide, nowhere to maneuver. They'll be exposed for at least five meters before they reach cover.
Five meters we'll turn into hell.
"Remember," I tell her quietly. "Controlled bursts. Pick your targets. Don't empty your magazine on one threat."
"I know." She settles into position, rifle rested on the rock outcrop. "Dad drilled it into me."
"He'd be proud of you right now."
The words are out before I can stop them. Probably not appropriate given the circumstances. But looking at her—jaw set, eyes fierce, ready to fight instead of run—I know they're true.
Gunnery Sergeant Hart raised a warrior. And she's about to prove it.
The sound of boots on stone echoes down the tunnel. They're coming.
I flip my rifle selector to burst fire and wait.
Shadows appear at the tunnel entrance. Three figures, moving with professional spacing. They pause, scanning with night vision, trying to identify threats.
I give them five seconds. Let them commit. Let them think we've retreated deeper into the tunnel.
Then I open fire.
The first burst catches the lead mercenary center mass. He drops. The second burst hits the man behind him, spinning him into the wall. Willa's rifle joins mine, her shots finding the third figure before he can return fire.
Three down in as many seconds.
But more are coming. I can hear them coordinating, adapting, realizing they walked into an ambush instead of catching fleeing targets.
"Reloading," I call.
"Covering," Willa responds, laying down suppressive fire that keeps the mercenaries from advancing. She's smooth, controlled, giving me time to change magazines without leaving us exposed.
The next assault comes differently. They throw flash-bangs—two of them, bouncing off the tunnel walls. I close my eyes, turn away, letting the blast wash over us. It's disorienting but not debilitating. They're hoping we're not prepared for it.
They're wrong.
I fire blind into the tunnel entrance, spraying suppressive rounds at chest height. Willa does the same. The crossfire turns the entrance into a meat grinder. I hear screams, curses, the sound of bodies hitting stone.
