The morning air smelled of salt, rusted iron, and the stale residue of the storm that had battered the coast all night. I crouched behind a stack of weathered shipping containers, my fingers wrapped tight around the cold grip of my rifle. Beside me, the three survivors of the underground clinic blast breathed in a heavy, synchronous rhythm. Their faces were blackened by soot, their clothes torn and caked in dried concrete dust from when the ceiling had collapsed over our heads.
They were running on pure adrenaline and a bitter, consuming need for payback. Behind them stood the four fresh reinforcements who had managed to slip through the perimeter under the cover of the pre-dawn fog.
Eight of us. Eight men standing against Boris's primary stronghold—The Anchor.
