Closer.
They’re not guessing anymore.
They’re tracking.
Three years of captivity taught me the difference. Guessing is sloppy. Tracking is professional. Malenkov trained his men well.
Ronan trained us better.
I close my eyes for half a second—not to pray, not to panic—but to remember.
Temporary infrastructure lies.
It hides its access points behind utility, not architecture.
I open the junction box.
Inside: wires, old labels, faded diagrams—and a lever.
Not obvious. Not marked.
But placed exactly where someone working blind would need it.
I glance at her. “When this opens, you don’t hesitate.”
She nods, jaw tight.
The shouts behind us sharpen—one voice barking commands, another laughing like he already believes we’re cornered.
I grab the lever.
And pull.
The wall breathes.
A vibration runs through the concrete, low and deep. The surface shudders, then slides sideways with a grinding protest of ancient hydraulics.
A gap opens—just wide enough.
Dark air rushes out, stale and metallic.
I grab her wrist and shove her through first, diving inbehind her as flashlight beams slice the tunnel we just abandoned.
The wall slams shut.
Sound dies instantly.
No alarms.
No footsteps.
Nothing.
The space beyond is different.
Older.
The air smells of oil and iron and something faintly organic—mold, maybe. The floor beneath our feet is uneven stone, not poured concrete.
