Bloodstained scrubs usually imply a failed surgery, not a successful kill count. But in the remote hills of Sector 4, nothing was what it seemed. The insurgents breached the perimeter at 030 hours, expecting terrified doctors and helpless patients. Instead, they walked into the crosshairs of a woman who knew the windage of a storm better than she knew the dosage of morphine.
Beatric Cole wasn’t just the night nurse who checked IV drips. She was a ghost from a decommissioned Black Ops unit, hiding in the last place anyone would look. And on this night, the stethoscope came off and the rifle came out. The rain in the Zagros Mountains didn’t wash things clean.
It just turned the world into a slurry of mud and cold dread. Inside Field Hospital Bravo, a collection of reinforced tents and prefabs shuddering under the storm. The air smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee. Beatatrix Cole adjusted the flow on the IV bag, her movements economical and precise. She was 42 with graying hair pulled back into a severe bun and eyes that looked like shattered glass, dull, fragmented, and impossible to read.
To the staff at Bravo, she was just be the night nurse who never spoke unless spoken to, never laughed at the doctor’s crude jokes, and never flinched when the mortars landed too close. “Bear, you’re hovering again,” Dr. Liam Concincaid muttered, not looking up from his tablet. He was young, brilliant, and arrogant.
A dangerous combination in a war zone. “He sat at the nurses station, scrolling through inventory logs. Mrs. Gable in bed three is stable. Go take a break. You’re making the residents nervous. Monitoring vitals isn’t hovering, doctor. Beer said, her voice a low rasp. She didn’t look at him. She was watching the dark window where the rain lashed against the plastic sheeting.
The pressure is dropping outside. Storm’s getting worse. It’s just rain be not an air strike. Liam scoffed, spinning his pen. You need to relax. You treat this place like a fortress instead of a hospital. It’s been quiet for 3 weeks. Even the insurgents hate this weather. Be didn’t answer. She walked to the window, peering through the reflection.
She wasn’t looking at the rain. She was looking at the sightelines. The perimeter fence was 200 yd out, poorly lit. The guard tower on the north ridge was currently obscured by fog. A tactical nightmare. She had spent the last 6 months here, washing bed pans and changing bandages, burying a past that was soaked in significantly more blood than this trauma ward.
The name Beatatrix Cole was real enough, but the nursing degree was a fabrication by a handler who was now likely dead or in prison. Before the scrubs, she was Sergeant Cole of the first special forces operational detachment delta’s unparalleled sniper initiative, a ghost program that didn’t officially exist. She had 64 confirmed kills, but here she was just the woman who made sure the generator didn’t stall.
Hey, be nurse Chloe, a bubbly 20some from Ohio who treated war tourism like a gap year, bounced up to her. Did you hear? We’re getting a transfer tonight. Some bigwig from the diplomatic corps got caught in an IED blast near the convoy route. Major Silus Graves is bringing him in personally. Bee’s spine stiffened.
Major Silas Graves. That was a name she knew. A man who asked too many questions. When? Be asked, her tone flat. ETA 10 minutes. It’s going to be a mess. Trauma 1 is prepping. You want in? No, Bee said, turning back to the hallway. I’ll handle the overflow in the recovery ward. Keep the noise down.
She walked away, her soft sold shoes making no sound on the lenolium. She needed to be invisible. If Graves recognized her, if he realized that the night nurse was actually the rogue operator known as the Wraith, she wouldn’t be fighting insurgents. She’d be fighting a court marshal. She checked her watch. 2:45 a.m. The lights flickered.
The generator hummed, choked, and then resumed its steady drone. In the supply closet at the end of the hall, behind stacks of sterile gawes and saline crates, sat a locked, nondescript hard case labeled ventilator parts do not touch. It didn’t contain medical equipment. It held a disassembled CheayAc M200 intervention sniper rifle and a Glock 19 with three magazines of hollow points.
B touched the keypad on the door just to ensure it was locked. Paranoia was a survival trait. Suddenly, the radio at the nurs’s station crackled to life. Static cutting through the quiet hum of the ward. Bravo base, this is convoy alpha 2. Taking fire. Repeat, taking heavy fire. We are punching through the gate.
Get the trauma team ready. We have multiple critical. The calm of the night shattered. Dr. Liam jumped up, his arrogance replaced by sudden panic. Code blue. Everyone to the bay. Move. Be didn’t run. She moved with a terrifying fluid speed, grabbing a trauma kit and moving toward the entrance. But her eyes weren’t on the medical supplies.
She was scanning the perimeter cameras on the wall monitor.The feed from camera 4 was dead. The feed from camera 5 was showing static. “It’s not just a hit and run,” Beia whispered to herself. “The old instincts flaring up like a struck match. They’re blinding us.” She looked at Chloe, who was trembling as she pulled on gloves.
“Chloe,” Be said, grabbing the girl’s arm. “Listen to me. Don’t go to the main entrance. What? Be let go. They need us. Go to the rear supply room. Lock the door. Do not open it unless you hear,” said my voice. exactly my voice. Be, you’re scaring me. Go. Be shoved her harder than necessary.
As Khloe ran, the front doors of the field hospital burst open. Wet, muddy soldiers dragged in two stretchers. Major Silas Graves marched in behind them. Blood streaming from a cut on his forehead, his rifle raised. “Secure the doors,” Graves roared. “We’ve got hostiles in the wire. Close it up.” The storm had breached the hospital, but the storm outside was nothing compared to what was about to happen inside.
The chaos in the triage bay was deafening. Rain whipped in through the open bay doors before the Marines could slam them shut. The smell of copper and wet earth filled the room. On the first stretcher lay a man in a torn gray suit. The diplomat. He was unconscious, his chest heaving, a dark stain spreading across his abdomen.
On the second was a young corporal, his leg a mess of shredded tactical gear and bone. Get a line in him, Dr. Liam shouted, his hands shaking hand as he cut away the diplomat’s shirt. I need O negative stat. Where is the blood bank key? Ba appeared at his elbow, a bag of saline already spiked. She slapped it into his hand. Focus, doctor. He’s tensioning.
You need to decompress the chest. Liam looked at her wildeyed. I I know that. He fumbled for a needle. Bee watched the doors. Major Graves was shouting orders to his men. There were only four of them left standing, ragged, exhausted, and low on ammo. Sarge, report. Graves barked into his shoulder mic. Static.
Command. This is Graves. We are at Bravo. Requesting immediate air support. Over. Static. Graves slammed his fist against the wall. Damn it, they’re jamming the signal. He turned to the room, his eyes scanning the terrified medical staff until they landed on B. He paused, a flicker of recognition passing through his gaze.
But the situation was too dire to process it. Who’s in charge of this facility? Graves demanded. Dr. Concincaid, Beia said, pointing to Liam, who is currently trying to stop a spurting artery. Doctor, we have about 5 minutes before the main force hits us, Graves said, stepping over a coil of tubing. We were ambushed two clicks out. This wasn’t a random IED.
They knew the route. They knew the cargo. He pointed at the unconscious diplomat. That man is holding the ceasefire codes for the entire northern region. If they take him, the war restarts tomorrow. Liam looked up pale. We’re a hospital. We have protection under the Geneva Convention. Graves laughed. A dark, humilous bark.
The men coming through that reign don’t care about conventions. They are mercenaries paid by the syndicate. They want him alive and they want everyone else dead to cover their tracks. A sudden thunderous boom shook the ground. The lights died completely. Screams erupted from the nursing staff. The emergency red lights bathed the room in a bloody glow.
“Generators down!” a marine shouted from the door. “They hit the fuel tank,” Beia said. Her voice was calm, cutting through the panic. She moved away from the table. “Major, how many hostiles?” Graves looked at her. Really looked at her this time. He saw the way she stood, feet shoulderwidth apart, weight balanced, handsfree.
That wasn’t a nurse’s stance. Platoon strength, maybe 40, heavily armed, night vision, body armor. And you have four men, be stated. Four marines, Graves corrected, though his grimace betrayed his doubt. We can hold the main entrance. They won’t come through the main entrance, Be said. She walked over to the wall map of the facility.
They cut the power to kill the perimeter lights. They jammed the coms so we can’t call for evac. They want to funnel us. She pointed to the east wing where the recovery ward was. The drainage ditch runs right past the east wall. The rain will have filled it, masking their heat signatures from thermal scopes if you had them.
They’ll breach the recovery ward, flank your position in the main hall, and catch you in a crossfire. Graves narrowed his eyes. How do you know the terrain that well, nurse? I take walks, be said dryly. If you put your men at the front door, you’ll be dead in 10 minutes. And why should I listen to a nurse over my tactical training? Crack.
Glass shattered in the hallway leading to the east wing. A thud followed, the sound of a body hitting the floor. Because I’m right, Bee said. Contact right. East wing. A marine screamed, firing his rifle blindly down the dark corridor. Muzzle flashes lit up the smoke. The engagement had begun. Get the patient tothe secure room in the back.
Graves yelled, raising his rifle. Suppressing fire. Bullets tore through the thin drywall of the hospital. Dr. Liam tackled the nurse Khloe, dragging her behind the metal reception desk. Be didn’t take cover. While the Marines focused their fire down the hall, she slipped backward into the shadows. She needed to get to the supply closet.
She reached the door, punching in the code by feel. The lock clicked. She slipped inside and bolted it behind her. The sounds of war were muffled here. The screaming, the gunfire. It all felt distant. Be took a breath, closing her eyes for a split second. She exhaled the persona of the weary middle-aged nurse. She popped the latches on the hard case.
There it was. The matte black finish of the disassembled rifle gleamed in the dim light of a pen light. She worked with practiced efficiency. Barrel attached, bolt inserted, scope mounted. She didn’t load the JTAC yet. It was too big for close quarters. Instead, she grabbed the Glock 19 and a suppressor from the foam cutout.
She screwed the suppressor onto the barrel, checked the chamber, and slotted a fresh magazine. She stripped off her scrub top, revealing a black thermal undershirt. She grabbed a roll of duct tape, taping her spare mags to her thigh since she didn’t have a tactical rig. Bee looked at her reflection in the metal cabinet. The tired eyes were gone.
The Predator was back. “Time to go to work,” she whispered. She opened the supply closet door, weapon raised, moving not like a healer, but like the reaper herself. The hospital was no longer a place of healing. It was a killbox bathed in emergency crimson light. The air, once smelling of antiseptic, was now thick with the acrid scent of cordite and burning plastic.
be moved through the shadows of the east wing corridor like ink spilled on a dark floor. The specialized training of the deepest black ops units didn’t just teach you how to shoot. It taught you how to become part of the environment, how to slow your heart rate until you were biologically invisible.
Up ahead, near the shattered window where they had breached, two figures moved. They were big men clad in expensive non-standard tactical gear, ceramic plating, fast helmets with mounted night vision goggles, NVGs. These weren’t desperate local insurgents. These were tier 1 private contractors, expensive professionals.
Clear right, the point man whispered into his throat mic, moving to the nurs’s station. No resistance yet. Copy that. Kalin wants the target secured in five mics. Burn the rest. Be didn’t breathe. She pressed herself into a shallow al cove housing a fire extinguisher. The point man walked right past her, his NVGs focused down the hall.
He didn’t see her because she wasn’t moving, and her thermal signature was dampened by the cold wall she was pressed against. The second man followed, three paces behind. Ba moved. It wasn’t a rush. It was a violent controlled snap. She stepped out behind the second man. Before he could register the movement, her left hand clamped over his mouth, pulling his head back sharply to expose the neck.
The Glock in her right hand uttered a soft. The man went limp. She lowered him silently to the lenolium, not letting his gear clatter. The point man ahead stopped. He sensed the break in rhythm, the sudden absence of footsteps behind him. He began to turn, his rifle swinging around. Be didn’t hesitate. She raised the Glock, acquired the sight picture in the dim red light, and fired.
The round took him just under the rim of his helmet, severing the brain stem. He dropped straight down, dead before he hit the floor. Two down, at least 38 to go. She scavenged quickly. She took a frag grenade from the first man’s vest and a spare magazine for his carbine, though she didn’t take the rifle itself yet.
It was too bulky for the tight maneuvering she planned. She moved deeper into the hospital, heading towards the main lobby, where the primary firefight was raging. The sound of automatic gunfire was deafening now. Major Graves and his marines were holding, but the sheer volume of fire directed at them meant they were pinned. In the main triage bay, chaos reigned.
Dr. Liam Conincaid was huddled behind the overturned heavy metal reception desk. His hands pressing hard on the diplomat’s chest wound. Keep pressure. Damn it, Chloe. Keep pressure. Liam yelled over the roar of a light machine gun tearing apart the waiting room chairs. Nurse Khloe was crying silently, her hands slippery with blood, but she didn’t let go.
Where’s Bee? Did she get out? She’s hiding in a closet somewhere. If she has any sense, Liam snapped. A bullet ricocheted off the desk right above his head, showering them with sparks. He yelped and ducked lower. Outside in the rain soaked staging area, the mercenary leader, a hulking South African named Kalin, stared at his tactical tablet.
Two of his unit icons in the east wing had just gone black. Team two, report. Kalin growled into hisradio, static. Team two, this is Kalin. Status now. Nothing. Kalin narrowed his eyes. Something’s wrong. It’s too quiet on the flank. Deca, take four men, push through the east wing. Find out what happened to team two, and watch the corners.
We might have a rat in the walls. Back inside, Bee had reached the junction where the east-wing hallway met the main lobby. She peered around the corner at floor level. The scene was grim. Major Graves was behind a concrete pillar, firing controlled bursts. One marine was down, motionless in a pool of blood near the door.
Another was dragged behind a vending machine, clutching a shoulder wound. Only Graves and one other private were still effective. Six mercenaries were advancing across the lobby, moving from cover to cover, suppressing the marines with overwhelming fire. They were closing the noose. If Ba opened fire with the pistol now, she’d take down one or two, but the other four would light her up instantly.
She needed a distraction. She looked at the frag grenade she’d taken off the dead contractor. She pulled the pin, holding the spoon down. She needed to time this perfectly. She rolled the grenade down the hallway, aiming for a gap between the mercenaries cover. It clattered loudly on the tile floor. A frag out.
One of the mercenaries screamed, diving behind a leather sofa. The explosion was deafening in the confined space. Shrapnel tore through furniture and drywall. The red emergency lights flickered and died completely, plunging the lobby into absolute darkness. save for the flashes of muzzle fire. The mercenaries, temporarily deafened and disoriented, scrambled to activate their NVGs.
That 3-second window of confusion was all Bayer needed. She didn’t attack the mercenaries. She sprinted across the open hallway behind them, moving towards the supply closet where her real weapon was waiting. “Contact rear! Someone crossed the hall!” a mercenary yelled, his vision washing out green as his NVGs booted up.
They fired blindly into the darkness where she had been, bullets chewing up the wall, but she was already gone. She slammed back into the supply closet, bolting the door. Her chest was heaving now. The Glock was getting hot. She holstered the pistol and turned to the metal table. The Chayac M200 intervention was waiting. It was a massive weapon, almost absurd for indoor combat.
It was designed to kill people from a mile away, but right now it was the only thing she had that could punch through the heavy ceramic body armor the mercenaries were wearing. She grabbed a magazine loaded with48 Cheyenne tactical solid brass solids, rounds designed to disable engine blocks. She slammed it into the magwell and racked the enormous bolt.
The sound was heavy, mechanical, a promise of absolute destruction. She wasn’t a nurse anymore. She wasn’t even just a soldier. She was the apex predator in this concrete jungle. She kicked the supply closet door open and stepped back into the hallway. The massive rifle shouldered. Down the hall, Kalin’s second team, led by Deca, was advancing cautiously, stepping over the bodies of the men Bear had killed earlier.
Kalin, we found team two, both KIA. Head shot clean. Deca’s voice was shaky. This isn’t random fire. Someone knows what they’re doing. Push forward, Kalin commanded. Find them. Deca turned the corner, his NVGs scanning the gloom. At the far end of the 50-foot hallway, he saw a silhouette in the red emergency light that had just flickered back on.
It was a woman in a thermal undershirt holding a rifle that looked bigger than she was. Before Deca could raise his weapon, Bear fired. The roar of the unsuppressed Chay-Tac inside the hallway was indescribable. It was a physical blow that shook the dust from the ceiling tiles. The 408 round hit Deca center mass.
The expensive ceramic plate on his chest didn’t just crack. It disintegrated. The kinetic energy lifted him off his feet and threw him backward into the two men behind him. Silence followed the thunderclap, save for the ringing in everyone’s ears. Bee cycled the bolt, ejecting the massive brass casing with a clang onto the floor.
She chambered another round. “You have 10 seconds to leave my hospital,” Bee called out, her voice raspy, but projecting clearly down the hall. After that, I stopped aiming for the center of mass. The psychological impact of the Chayac shot was immediate. The remaining mercenaries in the hallway scrambled back around the corner, dragging Deca’s ruined body with them.
They were hired killers, used to overwhelming force, but they weren’t used to facing anti-material rifles in close quarters. “RPG! Bring up the RPG!” Kalin roared over the coms from outside. He had heard the shot. He knew that sound. “They have a goddamn sniper rifle in there.” Be knew she couldn’t stay static. The Chay-Tac was powerful, but it was slow and she was outflanked.
She needed to link up with Graves. She slung the massive rifle across her back. It washeavy, nearly 30 lb, biting into her shoulders and drew the Glock again. She moved towards the lobby, taking an alternate route through the ruined cafeteria. In the lobby, the tide had turned momentarily. The grenade and the thunderous sniper shot had spooked the advancing mercenaries.
They had pulled back to the entryway, taking cover behind the overturned security desk. Major Silus Graves was bleeding from two new flesh wounds, one in his thigh and one in his non-shooting arm. He was down to his last magazine. Sound off, Graves yelled to his remaining private. Still here, Major. Down to 30 rounds.
Graves wiped blood out of his eyes. They were dead. It was just a matter of time. The enemy was regrouping for a final push. Suddenly, a figure materialized from the shadows to his left, sliding across the floor to take cover behind a thick structural column next to him. Graves almost shot her.
He stared, his brain struggling to process the image. It was the nurse, the gray-haired, mousy woman who had checked IVs, but she wasn’t wearing scrubs now. She was in tactical gear, moving with a lethal grace that screamed, “Operator.” And strapped to her back was a Chayac M200, a weapon Graves had only seen used by extreme long range specialists.
“Nurse Cole,” Graves breathed, lowering his weapon slightly. “Focus, Major,” Beer said, her eyes scanning the enemy positions across the lobby. She didn’t look at him. She raised her Glock, firing two quick shots that forced a mercenary head back down behind the desk. Where the hell did you get that hardware? Graves demanded, his voice tight with shock and adrenaline.
Supply closet, B said flatly. They’re setting up a heavy weapon at the door. Looks like an M240 Bravo. If they get that mounted, they’ll turn this lobby into sawdust. Graves looked. Sure enough, two men were mounting a belt-fed machine gun on the reception desk. “We can’t stop that with small arms,” Graves said grimly.
“You can’t,” Be corrected. She holstered the Glock and swung the massive rifle off her back. The space behind the pillar was tight. She had to angle her body precariously to get the barrel around the concrete edge without exposing herself. “Cover me,” she ordered. It wasn’t a request. It was a command from one professional to another.
Graves didn’t argue. He leaned out and dumped half his remaining magazine towards the door, drawing their fire. Bullets chipped the concrete inches from Bee’s face, spraying her with silica dust. She didn’t flinch. She looked through the high-powered scope. At this close range, barely 60 ft, the field of view was incredibly narrow.
All she could see was the receiver of the machine gun and the hands of the man loading the belt. She breathed out, steadying the 29-lb rifle freehand. She adjusted her aim slightly, targeting not the man, but the weapon itself, specifically the feed tray mechanism. She squeezed the trigger. Boom! The shot was deafening. The 408 solid brass round slammed into the receiver of the M240 machine gun.
The impact was catastrophic. The machine gun didn’t just break. It exploded into shrapnel of twisted metal and springs. The man loading it screamed as the metal fragments tore into his face and chest. The heavy weapon threat was neutralized. Be cycled the bolt, the massive action clunking loudly. Graves stared at her.
The red light deepened the shadows on her face, making her look ancient and terrifying. He suddenly realized where he had seen that specific eerie calm before years ago. A joint task force briefing in Virginia, a blurred photo on a screen of a Delta asset credited with impossible shots in impossible conditions. Code name, the Wraith.
The program had been shuttered after a disastrous mission in Yemen where everyone was presumed KIA. “My God,” Graves whispered, the realization hitting him harder than a bullet. “Your coal, Beatatri’s coal, the Yemen initiative.” Be looked at him then, her eyes, usually so dull, were hard as diamonds.
“That woman died 6 years ago, Major. Right now, I’m the only thing keeping you alive. Are we clear? Graves swallowed hard. The protocol part of his brain wanted to arrest her for being awol and falsifying her identity. The survival part of his brain wanted to kiss her boots. Crystal clear, Graves said. What’s the play? Before be could answer, a new sound cut through the night. Not gunfire.
A low, rhythmic whooing sound coming from the rear of the hospital. Bee’s head snapped toward the sound. “Helicopter, inbound.” “Low.” “Friendly?” Graves asked, hope flaring. “No,” Be said, her face grim. “They aren’t here to rescue us. They’re here to extract the diplomat the hard way.
” Kalin had realized he couldn’t take the lobby with bear covering it. He was changing tactics. He was bringing in an extraction team directly through the roof of the trauma bay where Dr. Liam and Chloe were hiding with the target. “They’re going for the roof,” Bee said, already moving. “If they breach the ceiling in triage, everyone in theredies.
” She didn’t wait for Graves. She took off at a dead run back toward the triage bay, lugging the giant rifle. “Private, on me! We push the front door now!” Graves yelled to his remaining man, realizing Ba had just left the front door entirely unguarded to save the others. Be burst into the triage bay just as the sound of rotor blades became deafening directly overhead.
Dust and ceiling tiles began to rain down on Dr. Liam, who was hunched over the diplomat. “They’re landing on the roof,” Khloe screamed. “Move him! Get him under the door frame!” Be shouted, pointing to the reinforced structural entryway of the bay. Liam dragged the unconscious man just as a massive section of the drywall ceiling collapsed inward.
Ropes dropped through the gaping hole, followed instantly by four operatives in black repel harnesses swinging down into the center of the room. They landed heavily, weapons raised, lasers sweeping the dustfilled room. They weren’t expecting the nurse in the corner holding a cannon. Be didn’t have time to aim carefully.
She hipfired the chay tac at the first man whose feet touched the floor. The round hit him in the thigh. It didn’t just wound him. It severed the leg completely mid thigh. He collapsed with a horrific shriek, his femoral artery pumping blood onto the white tile. The other three operatives spun toward her, their submachine guns opening up.
Beer dove behind a heavy surgical instrument cart, bullets sparking off the metal. She was pinned down, her massive rifle useless for quick follow-up shots in this swirling dust cloud. One of the operatives, a giant of a man, ignored her and lunged for the diplomat, grabbing the unconscious man by his suit jacket and hauling him towards the hoisting ropes.
“No!” Liam yelled, grabbing the diplomat’s legs, trying to pull him back. The operative backhanded Liam with the butt of his rifle, sending the doctor sprawling across the floor, dazed and bleeding. Be peered around the cart. The operative was clipping a harness to the diplomat. In 10 seconds, they would be winched up into the helicopter and gone.
She couldn’t get a clear shot with the chay tac without hitting the diplomat. Her pistol was empty. She saw Liam on the floor, his hand near a tray of surgical instruments. Liam,” she screamed over the rotor noise. “The scalpel! Throw me the scalpel!” Liam, dazed, looked at her, then down at the tray. He grabbed a hasht scalpel and skidded it across the bloodsicked floor toward her. Be snatched it up.
It was a ridiculous weapon against men in body armor. But Be Cole didn’t need a big weapon. She just needed an opening. She stood up from behind the cart, completely exposed, launching herself at the operative holding the diplomat. The operative saw her coming, a middle-aged woman with a tiny blade. He smirked beneath his balaclava, raising his rifle to finish her.
He underestimated the speed of the wraith. She slapped the rifle barrel aside with her left hand, stepping inside his guard. With her right hand, she didn’t stab. She slashed a precise shallow cut across the exposed skin of his neck, just above the line of his body armor, right where the corroted artery pulsed. It was a surgical strike delivered with the speed of a viper.
The operative gasped, his hands flying to his neck as blood sprayed. He staggered back, releasing the diplomat. be spun, grabbing the diplomat’s collar and dragging him back under the cover of the door frame just as the other two operatives opened fire on her position, shredding the air where she had been standing a second before.
She was trapped out of ammo with a high value target and two terrified civilians facing down two elite killers while a helicopter hovered overhead. And then the diplomat’s eyes fluttered open. He looked up, groggy, pain-filled eyes focusing on the woman leaning over him, the woman with the gray bun and the face smeared with silica dust and blood.
His eyes widened in impossible recognition. Agent 49, he wheezed, coughing blood. Beatatrix, they said. They said you were dead in Yemen. Be stared down at him, the sounds of the firefight fading for just a second. I am dead, sir. Now stay down if you want to keep it that way. The triage bay was a cauldron of noise.
The helicopter’s rotors beat the air into a frenzy, whipping the dust and medical paperwork into a blinding cyclone. Above them, through the jagged hole in the roof, the belly of the transport chopper was visible, dark and menacing against the storm clouds. Be pressed herself flat against the doorframe, shielding the diplomat.
Arthur Sterling had been his name in the files, but names didn’t matter now, only mass and velocity. “Stay down,” she hissed at Arthur. The two remaining operatives in the center of the room were professional. They didn’t rush her. They split up. One moved to the left, overturning a gurnie for cover, his MP5 submachine gun trained on Ba’s position.
The other moved right, pulling a flashbang fromhis vest. “Flash out!” the operative yelled. Bee saw the metallic glint of the canister arcing through the air. She didn’t look away. She didn’t have time. Instead, she grabbed a heavy woolen blanket from the crash cart beside her and threw it over herself and Arthur just as the grenade detonated. Bang.
Even with the blanket and her eyes squeezed shut, the flash was a white hot, searing pain behind her eyelids. The sound was a physical punch to the gut. Her ears rang with a high-pitched squeal that drowned out the rotor blades, but she was alive and she was counting. 1 2 3. She threw the blanket off.
The operative on the right was advancing, assuming she was stunned. He was wrong. Be didn’t have a gun. She had a scalpel, but she also had the element of absolute suicidal aggression. She surged up from the floor, not retreating, but charging the man. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, surprised that the target wasn’t cowering.
Be slid on her knees across the bloodsllicked tile, coming in under his firing ark. She grabbed the barrel of his MP5 with her left hand, searing her palm on the hot metal, and shoved it upward. With her right, she drove the scalpel into the gap between his tactical vest and his armpit. It wasn’t a kill shot, but it severed the nerves in his brachial plexus.
His arm went dead instantly. He screamed, dropping the weapon. Be didn’t stab him again. She didn’t have time. She snatched the falling MP5 out of the air before it hit the ground. She rolled onto her back, bringing the submachine gun up and fired a burst at the second operative across the room just as he popped up to shoot.
The bullets sparked off the metal gurnie, forcing him back down. Liam be screamed, her voice roar. Get Arthur to the pharmacy. It has reinforced concrete walls. Go. Dr. Liam Concaid, clutching his bruised ribs, grabbed the bewildered diplomat. Come on, move. They scrambled out of the triage bay into the hallway.
B provided covering fire, walking backward, sending short, controlled bursts into the center of the room to keep the remaining operative pinned. Suddenly, the radio on the dead operative’s vest crackled. It was Kalin’s voice. Skyhook 1, suppress the target. I’m breaching the north wall. We’re crushing them in the middle.
Be a cursed. The north wall that was directly behind the pharmacy. If Kalin breached there, Liam and the diplomat would be walking into a slaughter. She grabbed the radio off the dead man’s chest. Kalin. She spoke into the mic, her voice dripping with cold malice. There was a pause on the line. The gunfire outside seemed to lull for a second. Who is this? Kalin asked.
You’re losing men, Kalin. Good men, expensive men. And for what? a politician. I know that voice, Kalin said, a tone of realization creeping in. Major Graves said there was a nurse, but you don’t sound like a nurse. You sound like Yemen. Bee felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold rain. If you breach the north wall, bear said, I will blow the oxygen manifold.
The whole wing goes up. You don’t get the diplomat. You just get a crater. You’re bluffing. You won’t kill your own patients. I’m not a nurse tonight, Kalin. Try me. She smashed the radio against the wall. It was a bluff. Mostly. She wouldn’t kill the patients. But she needed Kalin to hesitate. She needed him to doubt the intelligence he was getting.
She turned and ran towards the pharmacy, catching up with Liam and Arthur. Change of plan, Beia said breathless. Pharmacy is a trap. We’re going to the morg. Liam stared at her, his white coat stained red. “The morg? It’s in the basement. It’s a dead end. It has one entrance,” Bee said, checking the magazine on the stolen MP5. “And it’s the only place in this building with walls thick enough to stop a 50 caliber round. We make our stand there.
” “And then what?” Liam asked, his voice trembling. Be looked at him. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a cold, hard clarity. Then we wait for the sun, she said, “Or we die. Whichever comes first.” The basement morg of Field Hospital Bravo was a cold, sterile concrete box. It smelled of formaldahhide and damp earth.
The only light came from the batterypowered emergency strips along the floor, casting long, grotesque shadows against the stainless steel body drawers. Beer shoved a heavy metal gurnie against the thick steel door, barricading it. “It won’t hold them forever,” Arthur said. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against a cabinet, clutching his side.
The shock was wearing off, and the diplomat was returning. “They have thermal charges. They’ll cut through the hinges.” “I know,” Bear said. She was stripping the gear off the dead operative she had looted earlier. grenades, ammo, a combat knife. She handed a spare pistol to Dr. Liam. Liam looked at the gun like it was a venomous snake. “I took an oath, Be.
