I swallow hard, cataloging everything—the tempo of movement, the faint metallic screech on turns, the temperature drop every few minutes as we pass through deeper sections.
If I get one chance…
Just one…
The transport lurches slightly. Slows.
A different sound joins the rhythm—another vehicle nearby. Parallel.
I hold my breath.
This isn’t a final destination.
This is a handoff.
Fear claws up my spine, but beneath it—hope.
Hope is dangerous.
But it’s also stubborn.
The guard glances back at me. “Try anything,” he says casually, “and you won’t make the transfer.”
I meet his gaze, forcing my lips into something that might pass for indifference.
“I can barely stand,” I rasp. “What do you think I’ll try?”
He snorts and turns away.
The transport slows further.
Stops.
My heart slams so hard it hurts.
Somewhere far above ground, I don’t know that Lena Hart is tracking this moment down to the second. But I hope she is.
I don’t know that Ronan Pierce is watching the map tighten. But I hope he is.
All I do know is this—
I’m not forgotten.
And if this move is happening now…
Then something is coming.
I lower my head, breathing shallow, conserving strength.
Waiting.
Because if there’s one thing Ronan Pierce ever taught us—
It’s that movement means opportunity.
And opportunity means survival.
51
