They struck at sunrise.
Cross kicked in the side door, his rifle spitting fire. Two guards dropped before alarms wailed. Elena flowed past him, knife flashing, silencing another before his shout could escape.
The station erupted into chaos. Kane's mercenaries swarmed, rifles blazing. Cross moved through them like a storm, years of combat sharpening every motion. He ducked low, fired bursts, reloaded on instinct.
Reyes—pale, wounded, but unbroken—dragged himself to a mounted machine gun and unleashed hell, cutting swathes through Kane's men. "Come on, you bastards!" he roared.
Grenades thumped, walls shook, smoke filled every corner. The battle was raw, close, merciless.
In the chaos, Elena slipped away. Cross noticed too late—her dark jacket vanishing up a stairwell. He swore, cutting down two more soldiers before chasing after her.
At the top floor, he found her standing before a reinforced door, fingers flying over a keypad.
"Elena!" he barked. "What the hell are you doing?"
She didn't turn. "Getting what we came for." The lock hissed open. Beyond lay a vault filled with crates, weapons, and a terminal glowing with encrypted files.
Cross's blood ran cold. "This was never about survival for you. You wanted Kane's cache."
She finally turned, her eyes unreadable. "I told you—I used to work for him. Now I'm taking back what he stole. And you're either with me… or in my way."