S.A.S.
A gantry rose from the heart of the compound like a gallows, cables drooling from a platform stacked with generators.
Intel said twelve guards. All ex-Spetsnaz. Four inside. Two on the roof. One roaming perimeter. Numbers that sounded reasonable in a briefing and fatal in real life.
“Pauly, trigger the drone,” Jack whispered.
A palm-sized quad slipped from a pouch and leapt into the sky with a breathy whine, its lights dead, its soul infrared. On their AR overlays, the compound came alive in heat: two hot beads pacing a rooftop track, one soft smear in an interior corridor, a sliver of warmth behind a frosted pane.
Hot Chapters