“On three,” I say. “You pop the charge, I floor it. We’ve got maybe two seconds before they recalibrate.”
“That’s not?—”
“It’s what we’ve got.”
Talia’s hand finds mine in the dark. Her pulse hammers against my palm—rapid but steady. Fear she refuses to let win.
“One.”
Vargas eases the EMP from his pack, thumb finding the activation switch.
“Two.”
The dot settles on the windshield, center mass. Whoever’s up there just made their decision.
“Three.”
He snaps his arm up, hurling the charge through the cracked rear window. I slam the accelerator before it clears the frame.
The sedan lurches forward. Tires scream against asphalt.
White light flashes behind us—not the clean crack of the first EMP but something rawer, more desperate. The charge didn’t reach optimal altitude. Doesn’t matter. For one stuttering second, every electronic system within thirty meters goes blind.
Including the laser designator.
I cut hard right, threading between two shipping containers. The sedan’s frame groans. Talia braces against the dash. Vargas slams into the rear seat partition.
Behind us, nothing. No shot. No pursuit vehicle. Just the hum of a city that doesn’t know how close three people just came to dying.
I don’t slow down.
Four blocks. Five. The industrial district gives way to residential row houses with dark windows, parked cars covered in morning dew.
Normal. Safe.
The kind of neighborhood that doesn’t know what stalks its streets.
“We’re clear,” I finally say. “For now.”
I ease off the accelerator. My arm throbs where the wound pulled during our escape. Blood seeps through the bandage—warmth spreading.
Doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it later.
Vargas leans forward between the seats. “My secondary site. Industrial district, South Side. Bought it through shell companies years ago—three different layers of corporate bullshit. Phoenix doesn’t know it exists.”
“Lead the way.”
The secondary safe house is grim—a concrete box buried beneath a defunct bakery. MREs stack in the corner alongside dusty cots, a single lightbulb hanging from a wire, and a secure comms terminal on a metal desk. It’s cold, damp, and smells of yeast and old dust.
But it’s fortified.
Vargas collapses onto a crate, groaning as he rubs his knee. “I’m done, Fuse. The leg’s shot. I can build the bomb, but I can’t carry it. I’m not the operator I used to be.”
I check the door. Three deadbolts. Reinforced steel frame. Secure.
I holster my weapon and turn to Talia.
She has slumped against the far wall, sliding down until she hits the concrete floor. Her knees are pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tight around her shins. Shivering. The adrenaline crash hits her hard.
