Chapter 7 - Predator on the Roof
The heavy thud reverberated through the hollow shipping container, knocking loose flecks of rust and dry dirt onto Ava’s face. Cole went entirely rigid, extinguishing the flare instantly into the damp floor with the heel of his boot.
Total, suffocating blackness fell over them, punctuated only by the rhythmic rumble of the train and the howling wind slicing through the rusted seams of the container.
Above them, slow, heavy footfalls shifted against the corrugated steel roof.
Ava clamped her hand over her mouth, biting her palm until she tasted copper to keep from screaming. Every nerve ending in her leg pulsed with violent, sickening heat. Cole silently set the scalpel down on the crate, drew a suppressed automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, and pointed the barrel directly toward the ceiling.
A metallic scrape echoed from the roof hatch near the rear. Someone was unscrewing the emergency maintenance bolts from the outside.
*Skrrr-clink.*
Cole waited, tracking the faint scraping sounds in the dark. Ava could hear the shallow, strained hiss of his breathing; the gunshot wound in his side was draining him fast. If a fight broke out here, he wouldn't last sixty seconds.
Suddenly, the roof hatch didn't open. Instead, the hiss of pressurized gas cut through the darkness.
"Mask!" Cole hissed, lunging forward to grab Ava’s collar.
A canister clattered onto the wooden floorboards, spitting a thick, chemical smoke that smelled sharply of bitter almonds. Ava took one involuntary gasp, and fire tore through her throat and lungs. Her vision swam; her muscles turned to liquid.
The heavy steel side-door of the shipping car was sheared off its track with a deafening screech of ripping iron. The night air rushed in, cold and violent, whipping away the white smoke to reveal the silhouette of a man framed against the rushing moonlit forest outside.
It wasn't Richard.
The figure was clad in matte-black tactical gear, an assault carbine slung across his chest, his face obscured behind a dark ballistic visor. On the shoulder patch of his vest was an emblem Ava didn't recognize—a silver falcon grasping a broken chain.
Cole fired twice blindly into the smoke. The tactical operative ducked effortlessly, stepping into the car and delivering a brutal kick that struck Cole's injured ribcage. Cole folded instantly with a wet gasp, crashing against the wooden crates, his gun clattering across the floorboards.
The operative ignored Cole entirely, walking with slow, deliberate steps toward Ava. He unholstered a field medical scanner, passing a glowing blue sensor bar over her fractured shin. The device let out a high-pitched, steady confirmation tone.
"Subject secured," the operative spoke into his throat mic, his voice synthesized and flat. "Package integrity compromised. Tibial fracture present. Preparing for immediate airborne hoist."
He reached down with gloved hands to hoist Ava by her jacket.
"Get away from her," a voice roared over the roar of the wind.
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A heavy crowbar struck the operative square across the helmet, sending him sprawling across the metal floor.
Standing in the open doorway, clutching the rusted frame with one bloodied hand, was Richard Mitchell.
