Vexler stood over a workstation, typing with one hand, the other holding a small, sleek silver canister. Viv’s name had been written on it in marker.
“Laurel,” he said, voice calm, his gun on the table. “You’re faster than I expected.”
Laurel lunged.
He turned and raised the canister like a weapon, but she drove into his chest with her shoulder. The canister clattered across the floor and rolled under the desk.
Vexler swung with his fist and connected with the side of her face. Pain lit up her temple. She didn’t stop fighting, going on pure adrenaline.
They went down hard. He scrambled for the desk chair, but she caught his ankle and yanked. He kicked at her, but she was already on him. She reached for the ax and used it again—swinging the blade this time, slicing it across his ribs. Once. Twice. He stopped moving. Blood spread across his shirt in a dark, blooming smear.
Laurel stood, breath coming in broken shards, ribs aching from the hit she’d taken in the fight. Her whole body hummed with exhaustion, the kind that didn’t wait for rest. It clawed at the edges of consciousness, pulling her toward collapse. But she wasn’t done.
Not yet.
Where the hell was Bertra?
Laurel turned in a slow circle, the ax still clutched in her hand. She scanned the room and studied low counters, overturned metal chairs, and shattered screens. Vexler lay crumpled on the floor, blood seeping across the tile, face slack.
“Henry?” Bertra called from somewhere upstairs. “Hurry up. I’ll meet you in the van.”
Laurel bolted into the hallway and ran, holding the ax handle with two hands. Every breath burned. Her legs carried her forward on instinct, not energy, up the stairwell toward the main exit. She burst across the main room and slammed into the final door with her shoulder, stumbling out into the open.
The storm had broken.
The night was a chaos of wind and driving rain, and for a moment she was blinded as the rain and noise crashed into her at once.
Then—
Bertra.
She stood in the open, just outside the exit. Her jacket was halfzipped, and her hair was slicked back and plastered to her skull. She held a larger canister in her right hand, her arm extended toward Laurel with the calm steadiness of someone pointing a cigarette, not a weapon.
“This is not the test I wanted,” Bertra said. Her voice was quiet and almost casual with the storm muffling it. “I guess I’ll try again after you.” She shrugged, and her thumb twitched toward the release valve.
Laurel didn’t breathe.
Then the sky opened.
A mechanical roar split the air—heavy blades cutting through the storm, steady and close. Wind pushed down from above, flattening the grass and pelting them with rain. The helicopter came into view just above the tree line, searchlight piercing through the downpour. The beam swept across the compound and locked onto them.
Laurel flinched from the brightness, raising her hand instinctively to block the light.
Bertra turned her head.
That’s when Laurel saw him.
Huck.
Half his body leaning out of the open door of the chopper, headset on, rifle braced against the edge. He didn’t shout. He didn’t give a warning.
Muzzle flash.
The shot cracked through the storm, sharp and final.
Bertra’s eyes widened a fraction as a hole appeared in the center of her forehead. The canister slipped from her hand, her mouth opening as if to speak. She dropped straight back, her body folding like someone had cut a string.
Laurel surged forward, slipping on the wet concrete. Her knee hit hard, but she didn’t stop. The canister bounced once, dangerously close to the edge of the stairwell.
