Page 81 of Beyond Redemption

We moved toward Command, leaving Tyler behind just long enough to say his goodbyes to his wife, and then he jogged to join us.

Travis spoke as we walked, just loud enough to hear. “Fuck me, this is crazy. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I hope we never do again,” Abby said.

Taylor turned to watch the families rush to the bunker, instinct pulling him in two directions at once. His posture went taut, feeling the conflict of leaving his wife and children behind, and knowing he had no other choice but to fight to keep them safe. The last five days of impatience burned off in an instant, transforming into righteous anger. The Carlisis had been a threat to the survival of our family for far too long, and I could see it in his eyes.

Zeke spoke as he walked. “We’re going to Command first,” he said over his shoulder. “Be prepared, a few of our guys were injured outside the perimeter and reported to the General first before going to med bay. They’re cleaning up the mess now.”

“We’re used to blood,” Travis said.

We cut across the yard with more families moving past us, the current of bodies so strong that more than once I had to angle sideways to avoid hitting someone carrying a child or dragging one by the wrist. Dust kicked up under boots, someone shouted for medical. Everyone remained relatively quiet thanks to rigorous drills and training, but the pace underneath it had become more urgent. Exchanges were shorter, movements controlled but without hesitation or confusion; the tempo a few notches faster than it had been the last time we walked these paths.

Command held the same red-lit discipline as the rest of the compound, its windows giving off only a muted glow into the night. Two armed men waited at the entrance, and neither bothered to challenge us once they saw Zeke.

Inside, the smell reached my nose before the room fully came into focus, copper threaded with antiseptic, thick enough to sit at the back of my throat as I stepped into the War Room. Blood tracked across the floor in dark, uneven swaths, smeared where someone had begun to clean it but had been pulled away mid-task. We might’ve been used to blood, but this volume didn’t come from a superficial wound that was quickly contained. It was enough to wonder if whoever it belonged to had survived.

Once I pulled my focus from the smears underfoot, I took in the rest of the room. Maps were spread across the central table, marked and reworked. Radios cracked in overlapping bursts, each held by an officer on opposite sides, relaying updates without pause. Marcel’s CO, Joshua Brooks, stoodbehind Marcel’s empty chair, his hands braced on the back edge, knuckles blanched, eyes fixed on the table.

At the center of it, surrounded by Jones and other officers, stood Marcel, one hand set against the table, his attention anchored to the map. Zeke had been right. There had been an incident, but the scope was beyond anything he’d conveyed.

The atmosphere in the room made it clear. Comms traffic overlapped in controlled fragments, voices crossing as men relayed updates faster than protocol would normally allow. The map had been altered since our last pass—fresh grease pencil cutting through established lines, sectors redrawn, boundaries pushed outward in a pattern that suggested pressure rather than containment.

“Brooks, get the Maddoxes up to speed,” Marcel ordered without looking up.

“North perimeter took a hit,” Brooks answered. “Not a probe. Full push. They came in fast, heavy, and coordinated.”

“How many?” Thomas asked.

“More than we planned for at this stage,” Marcel said, disgust in his tone. “Where in the blue fuck would a podunk mafia out of Sin City get this many fighting men?”

I stepped forward. “I predict there are even more than you think. They didn’t build this; they paid for it. This seems like Yakuza backing—manpower, structure, and discipline. Vegas doesn’t field numbers like this on its own.”

Marcel finally looked up, glancing at Brooks and then Jones before making eye contact with me, nearly impressed. “Meaning?”

“They staged it, sir,” I answered. “The main force will hold back while smaller units probe your defenses. They’re not trying to win the initial contacts. They’re measuring response time, positioning, and firepower. Typical Yakuza tactics.”

Marcel considered that, and then a slow grin crept across his face. “Good. Let’s give those bastards the fight they came for.”

Gunfire cracked outside, and then more, the voices over the radios coming in even faster than before. A loud boom rolled across the compound in a staggered wave, carrying through the walls and into the floor beneath our feet.

Marcel’s eyes sharpened as he looked to Jones. “The Devil just knocked on my door, Jones.”

Jones saluted him. “And we’ll answer, sir.”

Jones turned to leave just as Naomi pushed her way through. “General, they’ve brought heavier assets forward. We’re seeing equipment we didn’t have eyes on before.”

“So I hear,” Marcel said, looking over the map. “Give me placement.”

“Here,” she said, pushing her finger to a point just beyond the perimeter on the east side.

Marcel looked to the men on radios. “Counter-battery. I want those assets gone before they fire again. Lock sectors. I want eyes on those positions.”

“Yes, sir.” The responses came tight, immediate, each man already relaying.

Naomi moved to break away. Her father caught her sleeve between two fingers, just enough to stop her.

“Sir?” she asked, pausing.