“I’ve got another place, a secondary bolt-hole. It’s shielded. No signals in or out unless you tap the hardline, but we gotta get there first.”
The air grows thinner, hotter. Sweat slicks my skin under the tactical vest. Every step sends a fresh spike of fire through my bicep. I focus on Talia’s back, on the rhythm of her boots on the wet stone.
Left, right. Breathe. Scan.
She stumbles over a loose brick.
I catch her before she hits the ground, my good arm wrapping around her waist, hauling her upright. She gasps, gripping my forearm, her fingers digging into the muscle.
“I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t pull away. She presses back against me, seeking the solidity of my chest. “I hate this. I hate the dark. I hate not knowing the variables.”
“I know.” I keep my arm around her, guiding her forward, refusing to let go. “Stay with me. I won’t let you fall.”
“Statistically, fatigue leads to error. Error leads to?—”
“Talia.” I put my lips right next to her ear. “Turn off the brain. Just move.”
She nods, a jerky motion, and forces herself forward.
By the time we reach the iron ladder at the end of the tunnel, Vargas is dragging his bad leg. I boost Talia up first, watching until she clears the hatch, then help haul Vargas onto the landing.
We burst into the panadería’s basement. The smell hits first—flour, yeast, and chemical cold from the freezer. A row of metal racks lines the wall, stacked with bags of sugar and industrial mixing bowls. Somewhere above, a rack rattles; flour dust drifts like ash.
Vargas moves to the far corner and punches a code into a hidden keypad. A section of shelving swings inward.
“Up those stairs,” he says. “Keep your heads down.”
We climb. The stairwell’s tight, lit only by Vargas’s flickering penlight. Above us, faint shouts filter through—the Phoenix teams closing the perimeter. Boots hit the roof. A radio squawks two words I can’t make out. Doesn’t matter. I know the cadence of a net tightening.
At the top, a heavy door. Vargas shoulders it open, revealing an alley bathed in darkness and the hum of distant sirens. Ozone hangs in the air—burned electronics, the scent of our past life going to ash.
He kills the light, peering up at the skyline. “They’re sweeping east. We’ve got twenty seconds before they circle back.”
Talia grips my sleeve. “Jackson?—”
“I know.” I scan the street, map exit routes, and calculate cover angles. We need wheels.
A delivery van sits idling across the street, rear doors open, driver nowhere in sight. Perfect.
I take her hand, squeeze once. “Run.”
We sprint. Behind us, a muted detonation rumbles—the sound of Vargas burning what’s left of his life’s work. Sirens rise, echoing off brick and steel. A breeze rifles the alley, cold acrosssweat, lifting the edge of Talia’s borrowed shirt. She’s breathing hard, controlled. No panic. Pure will.
We don’t look back.
Across the street. Into the van’s shadow. I boost her up by the hips; she swings into the passenger seat, slides across, and makes room for me. I drop behind the wheel.
“Go.” Vargas climbs into the back, slams the rear doors, his breath ragged.
Headlights off. Gear engaged. We roll in darkness.
Two blocks, three. I keep our speed just under suspicion, eyes slicing through mirrors and the windshield. Overhead, a faint, insectile whir—too steady to be urban noise.
“Drone,” Vargas says from the back, voice flat. “Thermal micro. Civilian shell, military guts.”
“Got an EMP?” I ask.
