It wasn't loud. It was deep . A subsonic wave that vibrated Roadblock’s teeth out of his gums. The granite outcropping behind him cracked into dust. The cliff Flint was on splintered like dry pasta.
Horseback? In an era of drones and railguns, Roadblock’s gut tightened. That was wrong.
And Almas caught it.
Roadblock raised his massive .50 cal. “Then let’s go fishing.”
Snake Eyes moved first. He didn't need a mic. He flowed through the shadows like black mercury. He intercepted the first rider without a sound—a blade through a coat, a body lowered to the snow.
The fight was brutal. Snake Eyes’s katana met her shamshir in a shower of sparks. She was faster than he expected—not Storm Shadow fast, but wild fast, like a wolf cornered in a blizzard. She kicked a spray of frozen dirt into his visor, then slashed low.
02:00 HRS (Local)