Locke
The smell of crushed pine needles hangs thick in the freezing midnight air.
I lie prone on the ridge, my stomach pressed flat against the muddy embankment, staring down through the night-vision optic of my suppressed rifle.
"Two minutes out, guys," Byte’s voice crackles flat through my earpiece. "Three heavy box trucks filled with drugs, equipment, and about six Road Howlers members each."
"Copy," I growl, not taking my eye off the green-tinted reticle. "All units, stand by. Let the outriders cross the kill mark. We crush the lead transport first, drop the rear truck second, and pin the middle."
To my left, buried under a pile of pine boughs and brush, Hammer shifts his weight, the massive steel barrel of his fifty-caliber sniper rifle resting quietly on a sandbag.
Further dow
