Page 87 of Echo: Burn
"Doc's right," Mercer responds. "Southern perimeter is a kill box if we use it properly. I've got good cover and clear fields of fire."
"Do it." Kane makes the call. "Willa, keep calling it as you see it."
Four minutes.
Time stretches. I count heartbeats. Track thermal signatures. Try to think like someone planning an assault while remembering I'm just a veterinarian who learned to fight two weeks ago.
But I'm more than that now. I have to be.
"Thirty seconds," Tommy warns.
"Everyone weapons hot," Kane orders. "Remember—these aren't mercenaries anymore. This is the Committee throwing everything at us. They're coming to erase us. Don't give them the chance."
"Contact north!" Rourke's rifle cracks once, twice. "Lead vehicle disabled. Hostiles dismounting."
The siege begins.
Gunfire erupts from three directions simultaneously. Muzzle flashes light up the Montana darkness on every screen. Kane and Stryker engage the northern team with brutal efficiency. Rourke picks off targets from his elevated position. Mercer reinforces the south where the Committee committed the most resources.
"Willa, I need casualty assessment," Sarah calls out.
The feeds show two bodies in the initial contact. Northern team pinned behind vehicles. Southern team advancing hard on Mercer's position—he's holding but they're pressing.
"RPG!" Someone shouts over comms.
The explosion rocks the entire facility. Screens shake. Dust falls from the ceiling. My ears ring from the concussion even though I'm deep inside the building.
"Status!" My voice stays steady somehow.
"Missed the building, hit the treeline," Kane reports, breathing hard. "They're using it as cover for advancement. Stryker, watch your left flank!"
More gunfire. Stryker pivots on screen, engaging new targets. Two hostiles go down. But more are coming. Always more.
"Northern team flanking. They're trying to get around Rourke's position."
"I see them." Rourke's voice is eerily calm. His rifle cracks three times in quick succession. "Not anymore."
"Eastern team moving." The thermal signatures shift patterns. "They're trying to circle around to the rear entrance."
"Mercer, can you reposition?" Kane asks.
"Negative." Mercer's breathing is labored. "They keep pushing. I'm locked down here, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold."
"I'll take it," Sarah says, grabbing a rifle.
"No." The call comes without thinking. "Sarah, you stay on medical. Tommy, can you lock down the rear entrance remotely?"
"Sealing now." His fingers fly. "Blast doors engaged. They'd need explosives to breach."
"Which they have," Rourke points out. "Saw demo charges on at least three hostiles."
"Then they're predictable." An idea forms. "Tommy, do we have cameras on the rear entrance?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Because I'm going to tell you exactly when to unseal those doors."
The eastern team approaches the sealed entrance. They stack up, prepping charges. Professional. Efficient. Exactly what I'm counting on. Twelve operators moving with the kind of coordination that comes from extensive training. Delta. SEAL. Special Forces. The Committee sent their best.
