I slammed a fresh mag into my rifle, heart hammering with brutal certainty. Hydra thought they could herd us like prey. Thought they could take her alive and watch me break.
But they hadn’t learned yet—wolves don’t cage easy.
And I was ready to show them exactly how hard I bite.
61
Elara
The world was fire and thunder.
Gunfire ripped the night apart, ricocheting down narrow alleys, chewing through stone and steel. Smoke burned my throat, the stench of diesel and blood clinging to the air. Hydra poured from every shadow, their shouts sharp, coordinated, relentless.
But I wasn’t frozen. Not anymore.
My pistol bucked in my hand, each shot an answer to every nightmare they’d buried into me. A man lunged from the corner, taser raised—I fired once, center mass. He dropped at my feet, sparks flickering out in the dirt. My hands shook after, but I didn’t let go.
Beckett’s voice cut through the chaos, steady as a lifeline. “Stay close.”
I was close. God help me, I’d follow him anywhere.
The Team fought like a single, living weapon—River barking orders through the comms, Oliver and Gage cutting Hydra down in brutal rhythm, Cyclone calling out enemy movement from the rear. They were a storm—and Beckett was the eye of it, steady, unshakable.
Hydra pressed harder. Grenades rolled across the street, exploding in deafening blasts. Dust and debris rained down, turning the world into a haze of orange and gray. My lungs burned, but Beckett’s hand found mine in the smoke, hauling me forward, his grip a promise stronger than steel.
“They’re herding us,” I shouted over the chaos.
“I know.” His voice was rough, clipped, but sure. “Let them think it’s working.”
I didn’t understand how he could sound so calm with death closing in, but I clung to it, let it anchor me.
Another wave surged from the alley. I fired, dropped one, then another, the recoil rattling my bones. A third man broke through, too close, too fast. He slammed into me, sending my pistol skidding across the pavement. Panic surged white-hot as his hand closed around my wrist, yanking me toward the alley.
“No!” The scream tore from me, raw and feral.
Before I could fight free, Beckett was there. His rifle cracked point-blank, the man collapsing against me before sliding lifeless to the ground. Beckett’s arm was around me instantly, dragging me back against his chest, his body shielding mine as more shots tore through the air.
His breath was hot against my ear. “They don’t touch you. Do you understand? Not while I’m standing.”
Tears burned, but I blinked them away, forcing the fear down. I grabbed my pistol from the dirt, loaded a fresh mag with shaking hands, and lifted my chin.
“Then I’ll stand with you,” I said.
And this time, I meant it.
62
Beckett
Hydra didn’t break.
For every man we dropped, two more slipped from the alleys. The street wasn’t a battlefield anymore—it was a funnel. Smoke choked the air, flames chewed the market stalls, and the noise was a wall of gunfire and shouts.
And through it all, I saw Grand’s hand. This wasn’t just an ambush. It was a net.
“Cyclone!” I snapped. “Where’s their main force?”
His voice cracked through comms, tight with strain. “South side—closing fast. And Beckett… they’re not advancing like a kill squad. They’re moving to encircle.”
