Cole's rifle lowered, smoke curling from the barrel. The body at his feet lay slack, pistol still in its hand.
Hale stepped closer, eyes flicking once to the corpse, then back to Cole. His face gave nothing away.
"First one's always the hardest," he said. Voice flat, certain. "You did it right."
Morales shifted in the dirt, looking anywhere but the body. Doc's jaw tightened, a flicker of something passing behind her eyes before she pulled it back under control.
The ruined ZBL hissed in the background, fire licking from the hatch.
Hale keyed the handset again.
"Kodiak, this is Specter Actual. Say again last transmission. Over."
Static, then a voice broke through — male, harsh, speaking fast in Russian.
"Kto takoy Kodiak?"
None of them understood the words, but the tone was enough. Wrong voice, wrong language. The frequency went dead a second later.
Hale clicked the handset off without another word. He crouched low, rifle slung, and pulled a folded map from his chest rig. Red lens flashlight snapped on, throwing a faint glow over paper creased and smudged with dirt.
"We're here," he said, tapping a finger against a rough block of streets. "Crash site's two clicks east. Last sighting put Kodiak somewhere along this stretch." His hand traced the road like he was cutting glass.
He paused, studying. "We cut through here. Residential grid, cover on both sides. Stay off main routes—they'll be watching those."
The map fluttered in his grip from a light breeze through the broken house. Hale didn't look up. "Jamrock doesn't move unless we move first. Keep your heads. Keep quiet."
He folded the map tight again, tucked it back in his vest, and finally looked at Cole. "That's the line. We walk it, or we don't walk at all."
The map was gone back into Hale's vest, the words still hanging in the air when the sound hit.
Sirens. Long and hollow, crawling across the city, rattling glass in the frames of the broken house.
Morales' head snapped up. "Shit—what now?"
Hale was already looking skyward. Cole followed.
The morning light filled with them. Black dots at first, then chutes snapping open in white blooms. Dozens became hundreds. Then thousands. The sky was drowning in them, cords hanging like roots torn out of the earth.
Nobody spoke at first. Just the fabric groaning, sirens blaring.
Morales finally broke. "That's it, isn't it? This is the push. Last one. They're throwing everything."
Doc gave a dry laugh that died quick. "Hell of a thing to wake up to."
Hale's hand tightened on his rifle. "Final invasion or not, it ends the same for us. Move, or die under it."
Cole let the words hang a second, eyes still on the sky. "Guess we finally made the history books," he said, voice flat. "Shame nobody's gonna read 'em."
Morales stared at him like he'd been slapped. Doc shook her head, half a smirk tugging. Hale just looked back to the street.
The parachutes kept falling.
Morales swallowed hard, eyes wide. "Sergeant… do we even keep going? I mean—if this is it, if they're dropping the whole damn army on us—"
Doc shot him a look sharp enough to cut, but said nothing.
Hale didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed on the horizon, jaw locked. Then he slid the handset back up, thumb settling on the switch.
The radio cracked, Keene's voice steady through the static.
"Specter Actual, this is Keene Actual. Copy all. Nomad, Reaper, Kodiak confirmed down. No reinforcements, no support assets available. You are last element in sector. Mission priority remains—locate and extract Jamrock before enemy does. Failure is not an option. Hold fast, finish the job. Acknowledge. Over."
Hale pressed the handset, tone even.
"Keene Actual, this is Specter Actual. Solid copy on all. We will move to objective and secure Jamrock. Interrogative—any last known grid or signal on Jamrock before comms went down? Over."
Static flared, then Keene's voice cut through, calm and deliberate.
"Specter Actual, this is Keene Actual. Solid copy on intent. Stand by for tasking. I'm passing you to Argus for last known on Jamrock. Maintain comms discipline. Good hunting. Over."
The radio cracked, a colder, more detached voice replacing Keene's.
"Specter Actual, this is Argus. Copy loss of Nomad, Reaper, and Kodiak. You are last operational unit in sector. Mission priority is unchanged—Jamrock must be secured before enemy capture. What's your combat strength, supply status, and ability to advance under current conditions? Over."
Hale pressed the handset, voice clipped, exact.
"Argus, Specter Actual. Be advised: Nomad, Reaper, Kodiak all combat ineffective. Specter strength four effectives. Ammunition and medical low but sustainable. Mobility green. One enemy dismount neutralized at crash grid, no further contact. Prepared to advance on objective. Request last known Jamrock grid and time of last transmission. Over."
"Specter Actual, Argus. Last known Jamrock transmission originated grid Delta-Seven-Four-Two. Landmark is civilian structure—two-story restaurant, sign reads Miller's Crossing. Signal ceased fifty minutes prior. Building offers line of sight to east approach and interior space suitable for defensive hold. Enemy airborne units projected to land within two klicks. Secure Jamrock before compromise. Over."
Hale keyed the mic, voice steady.
"Argus, Specter Actual. Solid copy on grid and objective. We will move to Miller's Crossing and secure Jamrock. Out."
He released the handset, clipped it back to his rig. His eyes lingered on the squad one by one, then up toward the sky thick with drifting parachutes.
"Alright," he said. "That's our line. Jamrock's waiting. We move."
Cole shifted his rifle, eyes still on the drifting canopies overhead. His voice came flat, deadpan.
"Did HQ just tell us to go screw ourselves, or was that just me hearing it?"
Doc let out a short, bitter snort. "HQ doesn't prescribe painkillers anymore. Just tells you where to die."
Hale looked at them once, unreadable. "Pretty much." He turned toward the street. "Form up. We move."
They moved. Hale first, silent as a shadow, hand on the top rail of the fence. He hauled over clean and dropped into the next yard. Cole followed, rifle slung, boots thudding soft in the damp grass. Morales came after, less graceful, the chain-link rattling under his weight. Doc brought up the rear, landing hard but steady.
The yard on the other side was just another slice of America—charred grill, plastic toys overturned in the dirt, a swing set with one chain snapped. Beyond it, another fence, another house. A maze of backyards and alleys stretching east.
Hale crouched low, scanning the line of garages and telephone poles that marked the back alley. "We stay behind the houses," he murmured. "Eyes high. Windows first, yards second."
They cut through backyards in a line, shadows moving under the pale morning sun. Chain-link fences rattled as they went up and over, grass wet against their boots, the smell of ash and burned plastic hanging in the air. Every yard looked the same—grills cold, toys abandoned, curtains still half-drawn. A neighborhood gutted of its people but not its shape.
Cole's eyes swept windows first, then alleys. Nothing moved but the wind tugging at a torn flag on a porch.
Hale kept them angled east, toward the restaurant. He raised his fist once, holding them still as a formation of parachutes drifted lower in the distance. They weren't dropping here—yet.
They pushed on. Morales finally broke the silence, voice low, ragged.
"Miller's Crossing… place got good burgers. Went there with my uncle once. Funny, huh?"
Doc muttered, "Hope Jamrock left us a table."
Cole kept his mouth shut. He just watched the sky, counting chutes.
They slipped another fence and dropped into a narrow alley, garages on one side, trash bins lined up like barricades on the other. Cole caught the first whiff of it—burnt fuel, sharp and chemical. Then he saw it. A column of black smoke climbing above the rooftops to the east, thick and angry, the kind that only came from a bird going down hard.
Hale froze at the sightline, watching it for a beat. His voice came low.
"Jamrock's ride."
Morales swallowed hard. "Christ. You think he—"
"Doesn't matter what I think," Hale cut in, still watching the smoke. "We move. Either he's there or what's left of him is."
Doc's face stayed hard, but she muttered, "If he made it out, he's running out of places to run."
Cole adjusted the sling on his rifle, eyes fixed on the rising plume. Parachutes still drifted behind it, slow and steady, like the sky itself was emptying into the streets. He muttered, almost to himself,
"Hell of a needle to find in that haystack."
Hale motioned them on. "No more fences. We take the street. Jamrock's waiting at that crash or near it. Let's move."
Hale motioned them on. "No more fences. We take the street. Jamrock's waiting at that crash or near it. Let's move."
They slipped out of the backyard and into the open street. The sky was still thick with parachutes drifting down miles out, blotting the sun in pieces. Cole kept his rifle up, scanning porches and blown-out windows. Every shadow looked like a muzzle.
Then the gunfire cut across the stillness. Staccato bursts—short, disciplined. East. Right where the smoke rose.
Cole's stomach knotted. "That's him."
Hale didn't argue. He raised a fist, halted them at the corner. The crackle came again, punctuated by heavier booms—RPK or maybe a mounted gun. Cole couldn't tell through the echo.
"Jamrock's holding out," Doc muttered.
Hale's eyes flicked down the road. The houses pinched toward the crossing like a funnel. Smoke lifted straight up at the end of it. "He won't hold long."
He dropped to a knee, scanned the map quick, then stuffed it away. "Two blocks straight, then we cut left. That'll put us on his flank." He looked over his shoulder. "I'm point. Morales, tail. Watch our six."
He pulled his rifle in tight and started forward, the squad falling in behind him. Another burst rang out, closer this time, snapping them into motion.