I walked right past the commander, my heavy boots crunching on the glass and debris scattered across the floor, leaving Paco and Beast back in the office.
Behind me, the commander flicked his wrist, swirling his finger in the air. "All right, move out. Let's go," he barked.
As I brushed past the last tactical soldier standing in the doorway, I suddenly jerked my shoulder and lunged toward him. The poor kid nearly jumped clean out of his boots, throwing his hands up and stumbling backward against the doorframe.
I let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. "This is the people you bring with you, commander? You gotta do better than that."
I kept walking down the metal catwalk, shaking my head and chuckling under my breath. Behind me, the commander stepped past the flustered soldier, shooting the kid a deadly, ice-cold glare that practically screamed, Don't fucking embarrass us, man.
The tactical squad fell in line behind me, rifles at the ready, as we headed out into the cool night air. The quarry yard was dead quiet now, save for the crackle of burning embers and the hum of idling Humvees.
Right in the center of the yard sat an armored, matte-black HMMWV with its heavy rear doors propped open. The commander walked up, motioning for me to climb inside. I ducked my head and stepped into the Humvee's reinforced cabin, sliding onto the bench seat. The interior smelled like gun oil, cold sweat, and high-grade leather. A couple of heavily armed operators squeezed in beside me, locking their gear in place, while the commander slid into the front passenger seat next to the driver.
"Let's roll," the commander barked over the comms.
The heavy diesel engine roared to life, shaking the entire frame as the convoy of armored trucks crunched over the shattered security gate and pulled out onto the dark, winding highway. The headlights cut sharp beams through the thick mountain fog, plunging deeper into the empty canyons away from the valley.
For a few miles, nobody said a word. The hum of the tires against the asphalt and the low rumble of the engine were the only sounds in the cabin. I stared out the reinforced window, watching the jagged shadows of the ridge slip past, thinking about my workshop, my tools, and the quiet life I left up on my mountain.
The commander turned around in his seat, resting his arm along the headrest, and looked back at me.
"You're awfully quiet for a guy who just walked out of a slaughterhouse," he said, his voice cutting through the hum of the motor.
I turned my head, locking eyes with him in the dim red glow of the dashboard lights. "Ain't much to say, man. You crashed my party down here at Cruz's place, and now you got me locked in a tin can rolling into the dark. What do you want to hear? Thank you for the ride?"
The commander let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Fair enough. But you might want to adjust your attitude before we get to the drop, Quezada. The person waiting for us doesn't have a lot of patience for street-level snark."
"Yeah? Well, tell whoever's pulling your strings I don't give a fuck about their patience," I shot back, leaning back against the ballistic nylon seat and crossing my arms. "You keep talking about some big chessboard, and how I'm a piece you need. But let's get one thing straight, commander—I ain't anybody's pawn. If this little chat goes sideways, I'll carve my way out of your little base just like I carved up Cruz's yard."
The commander didn't get mad. He just smiled—a slow, dangerous grin that told me he’d dealt with plenty of psychos and operators in his time.
"That's exactly why you're in this truck, son," the commander said, turning back around to face the windshield as the convoy picked up speed down the dark highway. "Because you're the only motherfucker crazy enough to actually pull it off."