RWD: 3.x (Interlude)(Skitter[b.])

3.x (Interlude)(Skitter[b.])

The vest was too tight. It was heavier than I'd expected, a suffocating weight that pressed the air from my lungs. The fabric of the uniform was rough, unfamiliar, smelling of dye and sterile plastic. The weight of the weapon at my hip felt foreign and wrong. Everything was wrong.

I stood next to Greg outside the storage unit, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows between the rows of orange doors. The air smelled of motor oil and something vaguely metallic. Sweat had plastered my balaclava to my face. It felt claustrophobic, the damp wool itching my skin, every breath a hot, recycled thing. 

"Five minutes," Greg said, checking his watch. His voice was muffled by his face covering, but there was no tension in it. He might have been commenting on the weather.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. My hands kept wanting to fidget with the straps of the vest, but I forced them to stay still. The insects I'd gathered buzzed restlessly in the back of my mind—a scattered cloud of flies, beetles, and wasps drawn from the weedy margins of the storage facility. They felt anxious, feeding off my own nervous energy.

A white van rounded the corner, moving at a steady, unremarkable pace. It bore the logo of a plumbing company, complete with a phone number and a cheerful cartoon wrench. The kind of vehicle you'd see a dozen times a day and never think twice about.

“Don’t take the mask off,” Greg whispered as the van pulled up. "Under any circumstances."

The rear doors swung open before the vehicle had fully stopped. Greg stepped forward without hesitation, hauling himself up into the cargo area. I lingered for a half-second, my boots feeling rooted to the hot asphalt. Then, with a surge of what felt like grim resignation, I followed him

The interior was nothing like a plumber's van. At the far end, banks of monitors lined the walls, their screens flickering with feeds I couldn't immediately identify. Six figures in identical SWAT gear occupied the space, their faces hidden behind masks and tactical goggles. Two of them—a man and a woman—sat at in front of the largest monitors, their fingers dancing across keyboards.

It felt like something out of a spy movie, except the cramped space smelled of sweat, ozone and stale coffee.

Greg took the seat closest to the operators and gestured for me to sit across from him. The van lurched into motion as I settled into the uncomfortable fold-down chair, my weapon knocking against my knee.

"Control, this is Alpha Actual," Greg said into a hefty device that looked like a cross between a walkie-talkie and a brick. His voice had changed—professional, clipped, the tone of someone used to being obeyed. "We're mobile and proceeding to intercept point. Confirm status on Teams Bravo and Charlie."

A crackling voice responded, tinny through the speaker. It took me a moment to recognise it as Lisa's voice, electronically distorted but unmistakably hers. "Alpha Actual, Control. Took you long enough. Bravo team is in position along Route 9, Charlie team is holding at the three-mile mark on I-95. Feed’s up. We have eyes on the target location."

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. Lisa had also been dragged in. Of course she had—Greg had made mention of it just minutes ago. But hearing her voice over the comms made it real in a way that his debrief earlier hadn't.

"Copy that, Control." Greg turned to address the room. "Alright, listen up. Mission structure is as follows. Control is coordinating from a secure location and providing overwatch through compromised surveillance feeds. Team Alpha—that's us—is responsible for establishing and maintaining contact with the target convoy. Our tracking asset requires close proximity, so we maintain a tenth-mile envelope once contact is established."

The mercenaries shifted in their seats, attention focused on Greg. I realised I was holding my breath.

"Team Bravo is our forward element, prepositioned along the convoy's projected route. They maintain a two-mile maximum deviation from the primary path. Team Charlie is our rear guard, trailing at a three-mile envelope during the first leg, extending to five miles for the remainder of the operation."

One of the operators—the woman—looked up from her screens. "Sir, we're showing three identical convoys departing the facility. Two minutes ahead of schedule."

“Tattletale,” Greg said into the sat-phone.

“Working,” Lisa’s voice came back. A tense minute passed. The only sound was the hum of the servers and the gentle rocking of the truck. “Got it. Our target is the one on Sudbury Road. The lead vehicle is a silver armoured transport, license plate Sierra-Seven-Seven-Niner."

"Copy." Greg studied the map displayed on one of the monitors, his eyes tracking the highlighted route. "Control, redirect Bravo team to intercept point Zebra-Four. Alpha team will take intercept point Yankee-Seven. Charlie team, maintain current holding pattern until Phase Two initiation."

He turned to me, and I felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. "Status on your swarm?"

“They’re… available,” I managed. My voice sounded thin and strange through the mask. “I have a decent number in the area.”

“I need two dozen. High-stamina flyers. Something that can latch on and hold at sixty miles an hour. Wasps, hornets, durable beetles. Isolate them. Discard the rest—we can’t afford extraneous signatures.”

I nodded, sorting through the insects in my mind. I selected the strongest fliers—mostly wasps and beetles, as he had requested—and let the others scatter. The chosen few felt sharp and focused in my awareness, like tiny points of light in the darkness.

"Bring up the target profile," Greg told the male operator.

The largest monitor flickered, displaying a high-resolution image of an armoured truck. It looked like a cross between a delivery vehicle and a tank—reinforced panels, bulletproof glass, run-flat tires. The kind of thing that screamed "valuable cargo" to anyone who knew what to look for.

"Memorise it," Greg said to me. "You'll need to identify it from insect-eye view."

The next few minutes passed in a blur of radio chatter and navigation updates. The van wove through traffic with ease, the driver making turns that seemed random but were clearly part of a predetermined route. I tried to follow our progress on the monitors, but the feed kept switching between different camera angles and map views.

"Contact in thirty seconds," the female operator announced.

Greg leaned forward. "Alright, Skitter. You know what to do. Please confirm positive identification before tagging."

I nodded in understanding, despite still having mixed feelings about the whole thing. It was all so clean, so surgical. Even with the jittery tension under my skin, everything here was rehearsed. Not a rushed job. Not a botched, thrown-together bank robbery. This was what crime looked like when it had money and training.

I hated how it made me feel a tiny bit safer than normal.