Page 79 of Echo: Burn
I throw myself behind the computer terminal as rounds tear through the air where I was standing. Kane returns fire, his riflebarking in controlled bursts. Odin snarls, pressed against my legs, trained well enough to stay down during combat.
The terminal screen shows eighty-five percent. So close. So impossibly close.
I draw my sidearm, blind firing over the terminal to keep Kessler's team from rushing our position. My shots aren't aimed—I'm not trained for this kind of firefight—but they buy seconds. Precious seconds while the upload continues.
Kane empties a magazine, drops it, reloads with practiced speed. "Stryker, I need backup!"
"Pinned down!" Stryker's voice is barely audible over the gunfire. "They've got us surrounded!"
Ninety percent.
A round punches through the terminal housing, sparking. The screen flickers. No. Not now. Not when we're this close.
Another burst of fire stitches across the wall above my head, showering me with concrete dust. I duck lower, shielding the terminal with my body. If the computer takes a direct hit, the upload dies. Everything we've risked dies with it.
"Rourke, I need suppressing fire on the loading dock!"
Rourke's rifle cracks once, twice. One of Kessler's men drops. Then another. But there are too many. They advance in coordinated fire teams, professional and relentless. Bounding overwatch. Suppressive fire. Flanking maneuvers. These aren't hired guns or mercenaries—they're trained operators who know exactly what they're doing.
Ninety-two percent.
"They're flanking left!" Kane shifts position, engaging new targets. His rifle runs dry. He drops the magazine, reaches for a fresh one, and a round catches him in the shoulder plate of his body armor. The impact spins him sideways.
"Kane!" I scream his name without thinking.
"I'm good!" He recovers, slams the fresh magazine home. "Keep that upload going!"
But we're being pushed back. Kessler's team is closing the distance, using the production equipment for cover, advancing in professional bounds that eat up the space between us. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Soon they'll be close enough to rush our position, and then it's over.
Ninety-five percent.
My pistol clicks empty. I drop the magazine, fumbling for a spare with shaking hands. Odin barks once, sharp and warning. Three of Kessler's men break from cover, sprinting toward us.
Kane pivots, dropping two with controlled pairs. The third keeps coming. Ten meters. Five.
I bring my pistol up with a fresh magazine seated, squeeze the trigger. The round catches the operative in the thigh. He goes down hard, weapon clattering away.
"Willa, you need to move!" Kane grabs my shoulder. "Upload or not, we can't hold this position!"
"Ten more seconds!" I watch the progress bar crawl forward with agonizing slowness.
Ninety-eight percent.
More operatives emerge from the smoke. Kessler's using the numbers advantage, throwing bodies at us faster than we can put them down. A grenade bounces across the floor, rolling toward our position.
"Frag out!" Kane kicks it away. It detonates near the assembly line, shrapnel pinging off metal. Chemical processors rupture, spilling Component A across the floor in a spreading pool.
The fumes make my eyes water even through the smoke. If Component B breaches now, if the two compounds mix, this entire facility becomes a death trap. We'd have maybe thirty seconds before respiratory paralysis.
Ninety-nine percent.
Kessler appears from behind cover, rifle leveled at Kane's head. "It's over."
Kane's eyes meet mine. One last look—connection and understanding and love all mixed together in a single heartbeat.
"I'm sorry," he says.
The upload completes. One hundred percent.
