Page 94 of Shared By the Mountain Men Triplets

Alpha will be exposed if they advance too far without knowing the exact angle. “Alpha, Prime,” I say. “Adjust ten meters east before crossing the dry wash. North berm has interlocking view on your current route.”

“Copy. Adjusting east.”

A short time later, Novak’s voice comes across with the order to execute, and the assault begins with a flashbang that cracks open the morning.

The sound slams through the mountains in a black burst as DEA vehicles surge from their concealed spots on the logging road below. Agents advance in pairs, rifles up.

Turner’s men react like the professionals we suspected they are, and gunfire snaps from the berm, from the timber pocket, and from behind one of the SUVs.

Alpha drops into cover behind the dry wash as Bravo angles in from the south. Boone moves in with them. “Mouth withBravo,” he reports. “Contact front. Two behind black SUV. One elevated near fuel tank.”

The fuel tank sits beside the command structure, half screened by plywood. A man is tucked beside it, using the metal as cover like a desperate man.

“Smoke,” I say.

“Seen.” Cade’s rifle cracks from the ridge and the man near the tank drops out of sight. “Fuel tank threat down,” he says.

The DEA hits the clearing from two sides, and one of the cartel representatives, who gets trapped between their own vehicles and federal rifles, bolts toward the treeline. A DEA agent tackles him before he can reach cover, and another agent is on them a second later, knee planted, cuffs out.

“Forward command to Prime,” Novak says. “Dr. Hollis identifies an old culvert below the south road bend. Possible concealed movement route. Can you confirm?”

I shift my aim south and scan through the optic. I don’t see anything at first, then a branch moves, and it’s not the wind. “Confirmed,” I say. “Two armed near culvert. Low crawl toward Bravo’s flank.”

Boone’s voice cuts in. “Mouth copies. Bravo, watch your right. Drainage, drainage.”

Rounds snap from the culvert, and a DEA agent grunts over comms like a man hit hard enough to lose his breath.

Wren’s voice breaks through in the background at command. “Who washit?”

“Mouth moving to wounded.” Boone’s voice is all business. “Cover right. I need cover right.”

He breaks from behind a stump and slides down into the drainage with two DEA agents laying fire over him. He’s too exposed.

My hands tighten around my rifle. “Smoke,” I say.

“On it.” Cade fires once, and a man near the culvert jerks backward. He fires again, and another threat disappears into the ditch and doesn’t come back out.

“Right flank clear,” Cade says.

Five long seconds later, Boone gives a report on the wounded agent and says he’s moving him to hard cover.

I can’t help but think of Wren, who has to stand and listen to Boone treat another man while he’s under fire. She’s probably wondering if anyone has eyes on Cade, or on me.

She’s frightened but still doing useful work. She’s furious but disciplined. She’s our woman.

The fight tightens around the command structure, where Turner’s defenders fall back in organized increments, one covering while another moves.

“Prime,” Novak says. “Thermal drone shows three heat signatures moving inside the structure. One exiting rear.”

Wren identified a potential escape corridor on the maps two nights ago, after finding a break in the vegetation on Cade’s recon photos. Now, it looks like Turner’s using it.

“Smoke,” I say. “Rear exit.”

“Two coming out. One matches Turner’s build. Two escorts,” Cade reports.

“Can you take the escorts?”

After a pause, he says, “Negative on clear shot. Too much cross movement.”