"We're here to help," I said, dropping to my knees beside the first cell. "We're getting you out."
A woman inside stared at me, disbelieving. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but her eyes looked ancient.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, my daughter?—"
"We'll get everyone out. I promise."
Blade had found bolt cutters somewhere. The first lock snapped. The door swung open. The woman stumbled out, a girl of maybe six clutched to her chest, and I guided them toward the exit where Phoenix members were forming an evacuation line.
"Next one," I called. "Keep them moving."
We worked fast, systematic. Cell by cell. Lock by lock. Some victims could walk on their own. Others had to be carried. One man was unconscious—severely dehydrated, pulse thready—and I started an IV line right there on the dirty floor while Blade cut open the next cell.
"Medical needs triage," I said into my comm. "Multiple critical conditions. Where's that FBI backup?"
"One minute out." Tyler's voice. "Sarah's team is?—"
Static.
Then: "Contact! North road—three vehicles, heavily armed. Declan, do you have eyes?"
The crack of a high-powered rifle split the night. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Lead vehicle disabled," Declan reported. "But they're dismounting. Tactical gear, automatic weapons. This isn't Devil's Dust—these are professionals."
"FBI?"
"Wrong insignia. These are Chen's private contractors."
Chen. She hadn't just sent reinforcements—she'd called in mercenaries.
"Everyone out!" Axel's voice was sharp, urgent. "Get the victims clear—we're about to have company."
The next minutes were chaos.
Phoenix members herded victims toward the evacuation vehicles while gunfire erupted from the north side of the property. I worked through the remaining cells, cutting locks, pulling people free, shouting reassurances I wasn't sure I believed.
"Come on, move, move?—"
A bullet shattered the window above my head. I ducked, covered a child with my body, felt glass rain down on my back.
"Kai!" Axel's voice, somewhere distant.
"I'm fine! Keep them moving!"
I hauled the child up—a boy, maybe eight, too terrified to cry—and passed him to Irish, who was shepherding victims out a side door. "Get them to the trucks. Don't stop for anything."
"What about you?"
"I'll catch up."
He didn't argue. He grabbed one more victim by the hand and ran. I turned back to the cells. Three more. Three more locks. Three more people who needed saving.
The first was empty—whoever had been inside was already gone, freed by someone else. The second held an elderly woman, barely conscious, concerningly skinny. I cut the lock, lifted her in a fireman's carry, and staggered toward the third and final prison.
The final cell froze me in place.
A teenage boy sat in the corner, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking slightly. He looked up at me when I approached the cell, and I recognized something in his eyes—the same haunted emptiness I'd seen in Jake after the warehouse. The same broken-but-surviving spirit.
