The other guard has returned.
“She was here a second ago,” the distracted guard insists.
I panic a little and begin crawling forward. Unfortunately, one of my knees hits a loose bracket and it’s not only painful but it makes a clattering sound.
One of them calls out. “She’s in the fucking ceiling!”
“How the hell did she do that?” The other responds.
I freeze, hearing boots pounding on the cement floor and then on something metal. I know without a doubt that they’re trying to follow me. I quickly force myself deeper into the crawlspace. My elbows bump into dusty beams and the dust is so thick in the air that I can hardly breathe. My palms sting as I drag myself forward, as fast as possible.
The voices below grow louder, climbing into panic. A radio crackles with frantic updates.
“She’s above the interrogation room.”
“Check the vents. Block the other vent exits.”
I need to move faster, so I can get to one of those exit vents before it gets closed off. I press my body flat against themetal support bars and crawl towards a junction ahead. Sweat drips down my temple. I grit my teeth and push myself forward, careful to keep my weight centered on the beams. One wrong shift and I’ll punch through the ceiling panels and drop straight back into their hands.
I look left and see a rectangular gap that opens into a vent shaft. The metal grate is old and looks to be held by two screws. I brace my forearm against a beam, lift my foot, and slam my heel gently but firmly against the vent. The grate bends inward. A second kick loosens the screw. The metal pops. I lower myself through the opening, feet first, careful to land on my feet.
I drop into a dark office. Thankfully, it’s empty. My legs buckle for a second when I hit the ground. But I catch myself and in the end, I’m standing and one step closer to freedom. Hopefully, I’m also far away from the assholes who want to interrogate me in a more private space.
I move to the door and press my ear against the cool surface. Voices rush past, sounding angry and a little panicked. Someone shouts about sealing the exits. Another person warns security to check the maintenance hall. I slide the door open a crack and find the hall temporarily empty. I’m eager to find a way out of this building.
I move fast, my shoes silent against the polished floor. My bruised muscles hurt with every step, but adrenaline and the desperate need to see Slate and my daughter again keep me moving. A narrow corridor branches to the right, leading to the restricted wing. I peek around the corner. It’s empty so I make a run for it.
That’s when I hear a loud shout. “She’s in the back hall! Move!”
I take off running, wanting to put as much distance between me and those voices as I possibly can.
Just as they catch up with me, everything explodes with shouting, boots pounding on the cement floor and the sound of stun guns being pulled out.
The guard nearest me curses. “What the hell is going on here?”
Then Slate storms through the door. He moves fast, rushing into the hallway with Onyx and a cop I don’t recognize flanking him. Local officers come barreling through the entrance as well, turning the situation into some kind of free for all. Slate’s eyes land on me and he instantly starts moving towards me.
“Christina!” he shouts to be heard above the ensuing chaos. I can see the relief on his face that he found me relatively unharmed.
A sound of relief comes out of my mouth, and I start moving towards him. I get about three steps before one of the guards locks his hand around my arm, bringing me up short. I try to twist out of his grip, but he’s bigger and stronger than I am.
Meanwhile, Slate doesn’t slow down one bit. His pace turns into that predatory stride I haven’t seen in years, the one he used in Afghanistan when things went bad. He puts on a burst of speed about the time I manage to get away from the guard.
“Step away from her!” he growls, pointing straight at him. Slate’s vicious command makes the guard take a staggering step back.
Another guard reaches for me and Slate doesn’t hesitate. He runs forward and slams into the guard with his shoulder, takinghim down without a second thought. The man hits the cement floor with a sickening crunch. Slate comes down on top of him, his fist punching into the man’s ribs with enough force to drive air from his lungs.
The second guard charges Slate from behind, clearly intent upon saving his friend. But Slate spins around and catches him with a roundhouse kick right across the face. He follows up with a solid punch to the jaw, causing the guard to stumble back into the wall before collapsing to his knees.
Slate turns to find the one he shoved to the ground getting up again, while holding one hand against his ribs. Slate grabs him by the front of his shirt and slams him into the wall. The man gasps, trying to recover enough to fight back, but Slate pins him with one forearm across his chest and grits out, “You should never have touched my old lady.” His voice is so low that I can barely make out the words. Seeing him like this is enough to put the fear of God into any man
The guard tries to speak, but Slate pushes against his chest harder and the words never come out.
“Slate,” I whisper. “That’s enough.”
He turns his head towards me without releasing the guard. His eyes hit mine, filled with relief, fear, and something deeper. I realize it’s not just Slate and his club brothers, they’re accompanied by law enforcement. He shoves the guard towards one of the cops, who immediately yanks the man’s arms behind his back and snaps cuffs around his wrists.
Onyx and Mica move through the room, clearing doors, shouting locations to the cops. Two officers help pin down another REACH security goon who crawled behind a desk.
