1
KAILA
Myeyes feel like someone scrubbed them with high-grit sandpaper.
I'vebeen awake for sixty-four hours, fueled by lukewarm energy drinks and a terror that sits heavy in my gut.Theblue light from the six monitors surrounding me is the only lightI’veseen in three weeks.
Codecascades down the center screen, green against black.Thealgorithm runs its deadly path.
"Comeon, you bastard,"Iwhisper. "Letme in."
I’mnot trying to steal money or crash a government server.I’mtrying to save a bunch of leather-clad idiots who don’t even know they’re walking into a trap.
TheBrokenHalosMC—theGunnarmen.
Myfingers fly over the mechanical keys.Theclick-clackrhythm fills this frozen, abandoned cabinI’vesquatted in for the last month.Therotting wood structure barely stands, but it has a power lineImanaged to splice into.
OrsoIthought.
Aproximity alarm blares on the far left monitor.Thesharp ping stops the breath in my lungs.
Staringat the grainy thermal feed from the cameraIrigged up in the tree line a hundred yards out, my chest burns.
Thewhite-hot signature of a figure moves through the snow.Animalsdon't move in tactical crouches.
Theheat signature flares and vanishes.Thermalcloaking blanket.Pro.
"No, no, no."Ishove my chair back.Thelegs screech against the warped floorboards. "Notnow.I’mso close."
Kevin'sface flashes in my mind.He'sthe only reasonI’mout here in the frozen ass-end ofPineValleyinstead of safe in a server room.Ifthey find me, they find the leverage to execute my little brother.
Igrab the soldering iron from the workbench.Thetip glows a dull orange.Itisn't a gun.It'llhave to do.
Ihave maybe thirty seconds.
Glancingat the hard drives,Ihover my finger over the kill scriptIwrote for this exact scenario.ProtocolZerowould burn it all down.Wipingthe drives destroys the location data on theCostacompound and the only leadIhave on where they’re keepingKevin.
"Damnit!"
Scramblingover the mess of cables snaking across the floor,Ihead for the back window.Thesnow outside piles high.Iyank the sash, but the frame is frozen shut.
Ofcourse.
Woodsplinters inward from the front door with a violence that shakes the entire cabin.Thedeafening crack of timber gives way to brute force.
Ispin around, raising the soldering iron like a dagger.
Aman steps through the ruin of the doorframe.
Duckingto clear the destroyed wood, the massive intruder steps inside.Thewall of muscle and black leather is coated in a layer of fresh snow.Thesheer size of him fills the room and sucks the oxygen out of the air.Acut—a leather vest—stretches across his chest, bearing theBrokenHalosReaperpatch.
Iknow that patch.Iknow the man wearing it.
I’vebeen watching him through traffic cameras and hacked security feeds for eight months.
DanielGunnar.Theclub's tracker.
Theysend him when they want someone found.Thequiet, dangerous enforcer avoids posing for photos or getting into bar fights like his cousins.