Close now.
Very close.
“Delta Five,” I say softly. “Prepare for contact.”
My grip tightens on my weapon.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
We’re coming for our brothers.
And Malenkov is about to learn—
You don’t keep Navy SEALs in chains.
You just delay the moment they come for each other.
67
Ronan
Location: Ascendancy Detention Wing — Eastern Corridor
Time: 1229 Hours
The corridor narrows.
The air changes—cooler, heavier, threaded with the antiseptic sting of disinfectant and the deeper, unmistakable scent of blood.
I slow without signaling.
Delta Five mirrors me automatically.
No one rushes this.
Because this is where Malenkov keeps what matters.
The walls here are reinforced differently—thicker plating, tighter seams, fewer access panels. Not meant for efficiency, meant for permanence.
Meant to convince men they’re never leaving.
My HUD pulses again.
Two biosigns.
Weak.
Stable.
Alive.
“Confirm detention wing,” I murmur.
Miles doesn’t need to check. “That’s it.”
A security camera pivots overhead, lens tracking us.
