The weapons room is three turns away, half hidden behind a supply corridor. Its reinforced door stands ajar. That’s wrong; it’s never left open.
Which means this move was deliberate.
Inside, racks line the walls, filled to the brim with tranquiliser guns, batons, tasers. The good stuff is locked in cages: live rounds, blades, real weapons meant for containment breaches. Bones moves first, keying in codes he shouldn’t know. The red light turns green.
Honey whistles low. “Merry fucking Christmas to us.”
He grabs a shotgun, slings a strap of shells across his chest. I take a pistol and one of the heavy hatchets from the lower shelf. It’s notmyhatchet, but it’ll do. The handle fits my palm like it remembers me and choral music starts up in my head.
Later.
Ghost keeps to the corner, eyes on the door, still bleeding through the bandage at his thigh. Nightshade loads mags with mechanical precision. His movements are quiet, methodical – rage disguised as order.
Then a voice behind us: “You planning a field trip without me?”
We all spin.
Snow stands in the doorway, shirt half unbuttoned, grin lazy as smoke. He looks like he’s been waiting for this.
Honey growls, “You always have the best timing, Frost.”
Snow shrugs, steps over the threshold. “Timing’s everything. The alarms stopped, the guards vanished, and you lot are dressed for a bloodbath. I’d hate to miss opening night.”
Bones studies him, unreadable. “You already know.”
“About the doc?” Snow’s smile widens, just a little too fast. “News travels when the staff start deleting files.”
My pulse jumps. He shouldn’t sound that calm.
Nightshade’s glare sharpens. “Then you know she’s pregnant.”
For a heartbeat, Snow freezes. It’s tiny – a blink, a swallow – but it’s there. Then his grin is back, slower this time. “Didn’t figure her for the maternal type. Guess I was wrong.”
Honey mutters, “The fuck does that mean?”
Snow’s gaze flicks toward the ceiling – toward the black glass of a security camera. “Just saying,” he says lightly, but the tone’s too careful.
Bones catches it too; his eyes narrow. “Who told you, Frost?”
“No one.” Snow’s voice stays smooth, but a muscle jumps in his cheek. “You hear things when you listen.”
I tighten my grip on the hatchet.
Listening – that’s how spies talk.
Nightshade shoulders past him. “Grab what you need. We leave now.”
Snow steps aside, mock salute. “Lead the way, boss.”
We file out – me last, glancing back once. The camera light blinks red. Snow looks straight at it and smiles.
The kind of smile that hides a secret.
That smile stays with me all the way down the hall.
By the time we reach the stairwell, my pulse is hammering. Nightshade halts mid-step, head snapping to the side like a wolf catching scent.
The hair on my arms rises. Nothing. Silence.
