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The Condor shook like it wanted to tear itself apart, and I knew we were done.
Alarms screaming. Red light flooding the cargo bay. The deck tilted forty degrees and I slammed into the webbing, my ribs taking the hit. Someone was crying up front. No, two people. Maybe more.
"We're going down!" The pilot's voice crackled through the intercom, high and tight. "I can't—Christ, I can't hold her!"
I dragged myself upright and grabbed the nearest tie-down. The cargo crates were sliding, half of them already loose. Twelve pallets of supplies I was supposed to drop clean into contested territory, get paid, and get gone. Simple job. In and out.
Should've known better.
Another hit rocked us sideways. I caught a glimpse through the narrow window—tracer fire stitching up from the ground, bright and lazy-looking until you realized how fast we were falling toward it. The Condor's engines whined like a dying animal.
"How many chutes?" I shouted toward the cockpit.
No answer. Just the scream of hydraulics failing and the co-pilot swearing in Spanish.
I turned. Fourteen people crammed into the back of this bird. Stragglers the client said I'd be dropping with the supplies. Refugees, maybe. Displaced. I didn't ask and they didn't tell. They sat on the benches in salvaged jackets and boots held together with duct tape, staring at me like I had answers.
I didn't.
"Chutes!" I yelled again. "How many?"
A woman near the front, maybe thirty, with a kid pressed against her side, pointed at the locker. Her hand shook. "Six. They said there'd be six."
Six parachutes. Fourteen people. And me.
I did the math fast. Came up short every time.
The Condor lurched again and someone screamed. A crate broke loose, three hundred pounds of MREs and medical supplies slamming across the deck. It hit the bulkhead hard enough to dent metal. One of the guys in the back, older, gray stubble and a scar across his jaw, grabbed for it and missed.
"Stay down!" I barked.
They didn't listen. They were all standing now, grabbing for handholds, shouting over each other. Panic spreading like a fire I couldn't put out.
I shoved past them and yanked the emergency locker open. Six chutes, like the woman said. Faded orange fabric, surplus-issue, probably older than half the people in here. They'd work. Maybe.
"Line up!" I had to yell it three times before anyone moved.
They stumbled forward, clutching at each other, eyes too wide. The kid—couldn't be more than eight—was sobbing into his mother's coat. A younger guy, maybe eighteen, skinny, with dark hair plastered to his forehead from sweat, pushed to the front.
"I can help," he said. His voice cracked but he met my eyes. "Tell me what to do."
I tossed him a chute. "Put it on. Tight. Don't pull the cord until you count to five after you clear the door."
He nodded fast, hands already moving. Good. I kept going, shoving chutes at the woman with the kid, the older guy, two more who looked steady enough to maybe not freeze.
That left nine people and one chute.
The deck tilted steeper. Sixty degrees now. We were in a spin. The Condor's starboard engine was gone—I could hear the silence where the roar used to be, and the port side was choking, coughing black smoke I could smell even through the cargo bay's recycled air.
"Thirty seconds!" the pilot screamed.
I looked at the remaining nine. They looked back. The woman with the kid was crying now, clutching the chute straps like a lifeline. The young guy who'd volunteered—still right there, watching me, waiting for orders.
I grabbed the last chute.
For half a second I thought about it. Thought about clipping it on, hitting the door, and letting gravity sort the rest out. I'd done worse. Walked away from worse.
But the kid was still crying.
I shoved the chute into the young guy's hands. "You take care of them," I said. "Anyone panics, you knock them out. Got it?"
He stared. "What about you?"
"I'll figure it out."
I turned before he could argue and ran for the cargo. The crates were chaos now, sliding and slamming with every shudder. I found the one I wanted—smallest, tight-strapped, tied to a static line that should've deployed a drogue chute on release. Should've.
I clipped my harness to the line.
The young guy was still staring. "You can't—"
"Door!" I slammed the release.
The ramp dropped and the world turned into wind and noise. The people with chutes hesitated, just for a second, and then the older guy jumped. Then the woman, clutching her kid. One by one they went, orange chutes snapping open in the smoke and fire.
The young guy was last. He looked back at me one more time.
"Go!" I shouted.
He went.
I braced against the crate and watched the ground spin up toward us. We were maybe two thousand feet now. Dropping fast. The static line was rated for cargo, not people, but it was all I had.
The Condor's nose tipped forward. The whole bird was screaming now.
I pulled the release.
The crate shot backward, dragging me with it, and for a second I was weightless, tumbling through smoke and fire and sky. The static line snapped taut. The drogue chute deployed—barely. It jerked me so hard I tasted blood.
But I was falling slower. Not slow enough. Never slow enough.
The Condor hit first. I saw the flash, the black cloud, heard the crunch of metal folding in on itself like a tin can. The shockwave hit a second later, hot and sharp, and I was spinning again, the crate dragging me sideways.
I hit the ground.
Hard.
Everything went white, then red, then black around the edges. I tasted dirt. Smelled burning fuel and something worse. My ears rang so loud I couldn't hear anything else.
I tried to move. My legs responded. Arms too. Ribs screaming but nothing felt broken. I rolled onto my side and sucked in air that tasted like smoke and rust.
The crate was ten feet away, cracked open, supplies spilling into the dirt.
I forced myself up. My vision swam. The Condor was a burning wreck half a klick west, black smoke pouring into the sky. Pieces of it scattered across the wasteland like breadcrumbs.
No sign of the others.
I pulled my comm unit from my vest. Cracked screen, but it still had power.
Static.
I adjusted the frequency. Tried again.
More static, and then—
A voice. Male. Calm. Too calm.
"Dead Drop, this is Overwatch. Do you copy?"
I keyed the mic. "Copy. Bird's down. Cargo scattered."
"Understood. Listen carefully." The voice didn't change. Still flat. Still cold. "Red Hammer has eyes on your position. They're moving fast. Whatever you do, don't let them get those crates."
The line went dead.
I looked at the wreck. At the supplies. At the empty sky.
Red Hammer.
I'd heard the name. Everyone had. Warlord outfit. Heavy guns, no mercy, and a reputation for burning anything they couldn't hold.
I checked my sidearm. Twelve rounds. One spare mag.
Not enough.
Not even close.
I turned east, toward where the chutes should've landed, and started walking.