Billy grabbed the manila folder, sliding it back across the table as he stood up. "Alright. The initial package, coordinates, and burner comms are secured in the armory down-hall," Billy said, heading toward the heavy steel door. He reached out, rapping twice on the metal surface to signal the guards outside. "Let's get you processed, gear you up, and—" The heavy latch didn't click open. Instead, a piercing, high-pitched electronic shriek cut through the bunker—the base-wide intrusion klaxon. The overhead fluorescent lights instantly died, plunging the bare concrete box into a pulsing, blood-red emergency strobe. Clack-clack-clack. Heavy boots hammered the concrete corridor outside. The sound wasn't the disciplined, rhythmic cadence of regular base security; it was fast, erratic, and aggressive. Billy’s eyes went wide. He slammed his hand against the wall panel, trying to override the door seal, but the system locked tight. "Red-line lockdown? What the fuck—" BOOM. A heavy breach charge blew the reinforced steel hinges right off the door frame. The slab of metal imploded inward, crushing one of the chairs against the table and throwing a thick, choking cloud of white smoke and pulverized concrete across the room. Through the haze, silhouettes poured in. Four operators in custom matte-black tactical gear, suppressed carbines raised, moving with lethal, terrifying speed. Wet-work. Hit squad. They didn't yell commands; they came in to sanitize the room down to the studs. "Billy, get down!" I snarled. Before the lead operator could acquire target lock, I vaulted off the metal table, my hand flashing out to catch the barrel of his carbine and slamming it violently upward. The rifle spat a wild burst into the concrete ceiling, raining sparks. I didn't hesitate—I drove the heel of my palm straight into his throat with a sickening crunch, snatched the carbine out of his grip, and used his dropping body as human cover as the rest of the squad opened fire. The confined concrete box turned into a thunderous meat grinder of ricochets and muzzle flash. The second operator tried to pivot his weapon toward me, but I already had the stolen rifle leveled. Three suppressed rounds punched straight through his tactical vest before he could clear his holster. He dropped like a sack of wet cement. The remaining two tried to split, flanking the smoking doorway, but I was already moving—fluid, violent, and completely detached. I swept my leg into the third guy's knee, snapping the joint backward, and put a round through his helmet before he hit the floor. The fourth operator managed to squeeze off a burst that clipped the wall inches from my ear, but I closed the distance in half a second, grabbed the collar of his vest, and drove my combat knife straight up under his chin, twisting it hard before letting him slump to the ground. Total elapsed time: six seconds. The smoke slowly drifted toward the flickering red emergency lights. The room fell dead silent, save for the hum of the ventilation and the heavy, ragged breathing of Little Billy, who was pressed flat against the back corner wall, staring down at four elite tier-one wet-work operators lying broken in pools of blood. I dropped the empty carbine, rolled my shoulders, and stepped over a fresh corpse. I walked over to where Billy was standing, wiped a speck of soot off my sleeve, and looked him dead in the eye. "Damn, you guys really do have a problem here," I said, my voice completely level. Billy swallowed hard, looking slowly from the carnage on the floor back up to my face. A mixture of utter disbelief and grim realization settled over his features. He let out a long, shaky breath, shaking his head. "Man... you haven't lost a beat," Billy muttered, running a hand over his face. I gave him a sharp, confident smirk, cracking my knuckles. "Yeah, I know," I told him, turning toward the blown-out doorway where the smoke was starting to clear into the hallway. "But this just proves you picked the right fucking guy."

Baptism of Fire