I raise my weapon and fire once.
The lens shatters.
We move again.
Boots silent on concrete. Weapons steady. Every breath measured.
This isn’t adrenaline.
This is inevitability.
A final turn reveals the door.
Heavy steel. Reinforced hinges. The control panel is recessed deep into the wall. Faint smear of blood near the bottom edge where someone was dragged past it recently.
My chest tightens hard enough to hurt.
Four years, I thought my men were dead.
Four years of listening to silence where my brothers should’ve been.
Lena’s voice cuts in low. “Ronan—Malenkov’s internal feeds just went dark in this sector.”
“Of course they did,” I reply.
Last gambit.
I step closer to the door and place my palm flat against the cold steel.
I can feel it now.
Not movement.
Not sound.
Presence.
“They’re here,” I say quietly.
Behind me, Delta Five fans out—covering angles, sealing exits, locking the world down to this moment.
“Charges or manual?” Aaron asks.
I glance at the panel.
“Manual,” I answer. “I want it intact.”
Because thisisn’t an entry.
It’s a retrieval.
I kneel, fingers already working the panel, stripping it down layer by layer. The system fights me—encrypted, stubborn, arrogant. I enter every code I’ve ever learned.
Just like Malenkov.
“Thirty seconds,” Miles murmurs.
Plenty.
