My boots hit the asphalt, knees bent, shoulders tight. Every sense sharpened. The faint hum of traffic in the distance. The whir of an air-conditioning unit behind the lab. The buzz of a streetlight flickering overhead. Ordinary sounds, but tonight they pressed against me like alarms.
The facility loomed across the street, glass panels gleaming under the sun, sterile and quiet. Too quiet.
Adam moved ahead of me, broad shoulders cutting a path through the shadows. His gray-blue eyes scanned everything—every corner, every camera, every line of sight. The commander in him was all steel, but when he glanced back at me, just once, it was the man who had held me through the night. My anchor.
I tightened my grip on the pistol. I wasn’t just here as the woman who loved him. I was here as Captain Raine Carter. And I had a war to fight.
“Cameras,” Russ whispered over comms. “Three on the north side, rotating every eight seconds. Blind spot on the southwest corner.”
“Copy,” Adam answered. “Blade, Hawk, move on the blind side. Raine, you’re with me.”
We slid along the alley wall, every step deliberate. My ribs ached with each breath, but I forced myself to ignore it. Fear clawed at the edges of my mind, whispering of cold trucks and blinking red lights, but I buried it under steel.
Ahead, Blade ghosted across the corner, a shadow in motion. Hawk covered him, rifle up. Russ’s updates came soft in our ears, a lifeline in the silence.
I pressed my back to the cool glass, Adam’s presence solid beside me. The faint brush of his arm against mine steadied me more than any order ever could.
“On my count,” he murmured, his voice so low only I could hear.
My pulse spiked.
Three.
Two.
One.
We moved.
89
Raine
The glass door gave under Blade’s tool with a soft click, the sound barely louder than a breath. He slipped inside first, his knife glinting once before he melted into the dark. Hawk followed, rifle raised, then Adam pushed me through with one hand firm at my back.
The air inside was colder than outside, too cold for an empty building. It smelled of bleach and metal, sharp and sterile, the kind of smell that clung to your skin no matter how many showers you took.
My boots made no sound on the polished floor, but every step echoed in my head.
The lobby was immaculate. White counters. A row of chairs lined neatly against the wall. A fake plant in the corner. It could have been any office in any city. But under the fluorescent lights, it felt wrong. Too clean. Too staged.
We moved in silence, Russ whispering directions in our ears as he tracked the feeds. “Two heat signatures. West corridor. Stationary. Could be staff. No movement east side. Lab doors locked.”
“Copy,” Adam said, his voice low steel.
I kept close to him, the pistol steady in my grip even though my palms were slick. The memory of the truck pressed against me—those children strapped down, their lips whispering for help—and bile rose sharp in my throat.
This place could hold more.
We passed a wall of framed certificates, glossy and proud, stamped with seals from universities and government agencies. I slowed, scanning the names. Research grants. Clinical trials. Even the Department of Defense.
It wasn’t hiding in shadows. It was wearing a badge of legitimacy.
Adam caught me staring and touched my elbow, pulling me forward. His eyes said what I already knew:don’t get distracted. Focus.
I nodded, forcing my legs to move.
Blade signaled from the far corner, his hand slicing across the air. Door ahead. Restricted access.
