No containers of an ultratoxic, smallpox biohazard virus.

How Ranger hoped they hadn’t moved them off property.

“Hey, Ham, the van’s moving. Tango inside.” Colt’s voice via coms.

A couple shots, and Colt’s voice came back. “Clear. I’m taking a look inside.”

“Hang tight, Colt. We’re on our way,” Ranger said.

He headed for the exit.

Bullets pinged the door. Roy yanked Ranger back, his hand gripping his vest, and they pressed against the wall. “We’re pinned down,” Roy said. “Anybody got eyes on our shooter?”

“I see him,” Ham said. “Stay put.”

“Tango down. I’m in the van. Yep, these are the canisters,” Colt said, and Ranger met eyes with Roy.

Colt didn’t have biohazard gear. “Get out of there, Colt,” Ranger said, trying not to growl.

Silence, and Ranger glanced at the door. Shots peppered the exit. “Ham?”

“Sit tight.”

Two pops.

“You’re clear.”

Ranger stepped out, rolled around the end of the building, Roy behind him.

A quiet had descended over the compound, the remaining lights eerie between shadowed plains. Ranger tasted his heartbeat, the swish of adrenaline in his veins.

“I need a path to that van,” Ranger said into the coms.

“Copy,” Ham said. “We have three tangos between us, but Colt’s in the van. He’s taking it out of the—”

Ham cut off the transmission as shots sounded.

Even through the haze of light, Ranger spotted the van starting to move.

“Colt, don’t let any of those bullets pierce—”

And then his blood turned cold as he spotted one of the tangos rise, an RPG banked into his shoulder. Aw . . .

“Ham?”

“I see it. I’m moving.”

But Ham was still hunkered down behind an array of palm trees, the bark being shredded by the targets protecting their shooter.

Ranger had the better shot. Especially if he tucked himself in along the eaves of the house. He pointed to his sniper nest, and Roy nodded.

Then Ranger took off, through the shadows, head down, the steps ground into his brain. He shut out the pops, the shouting, and rolled into the nest even as he lifted his M4 to his shoulder. Please. A quick sight, more instinct and muscle memory than precision—

He pulled the trigger.

A hit. The shooter jerked forward.

Not soon enough.

The RPG fired, streaked toward the van.

Ranger wanted to close his eyes. “Colt, hit it!”

The van surged ahead, the missile flying past the tail end, missing and slamming into a grove of palm trees.

The ancillary explosion hit the van, and it surged up, over—

It landed on its side and skidded into another set of trees.

Roy materialized beside him and neutralized one of the other shooters while Ranger found the man pinning Ham down.

And then Range was on his feet, running toward the van.

“Finish it, Jake,” Ham said, rising. “We need you here.”