“Then move.”
We moved into the facility.
My tactical awareness expanded, filling the spaces my memory had left blank. I didn’t need to look at the ceiling to know where the cameras were. I felt them. I knew the blind spots in the corridor like I knew the ache in my shoulder.
Protocol active. Silent approach.
I shook the voice away. No. Not protocol. Not Blackout. Xavier. I focused on Clare. That was real. This sterile nightmare was the past.
“Service stairs,” I whispered, pointing to a nondescript door on the right. “Two flights. Then freight elevator shaft. Maintenance ladder to twelve.”
“Elevator shaft?” Havoc whispered back. “We didn’t bring climbing gear.”
“Ladder. It’s there.”
We slipped into the stairwell. Concrete steps. Metal railings painted industrial gray. The echo of our boots was swallowed by the silence.
We started up.
Hellhound led. I took the rear again, weapon raised, scanning the empty landing below us.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but it wasn’t fear. It was recognition.
I’ve run these stairs before.
The memory hit me between the second and third floor.
Flash.
I was running down. Not up. My hands were wet. Slick. Red.
Breathing hard, panic clawing at my throat.
Don’t let them take me. Don’t let them...
A door burst open above. Men in tactical gear.
The crack of a rifle.
Pain exploding in my shoulder.
I fell. I hit the concrete hard.
Flash.
I stumbled in the present, my boot catching on the riser. I slammed into the metal railing, the impact jarring my ribs.
“Xavier?” Hellhound’s whisper was urgent. He stopped two steps above me, turning back.
I gasped for air. The walls of the stairwell seemed to pulse, expanding and contracting.
Then the lights went out.
Not the building lights. My eyes.
A wall of static washed over my vision, absolute, terrifying white.
I froze, gripping the railing so hard the metal bit into my palm. Blind. Completely, utterly blind in a hostile infiltration.
