Except it isn’t.
A metal gate at the far end, half hidden behind stacked pallets.
It looks locked.
It looks pointless.
It looks like the kind of thing you only know about if you’ve been here before.
Lena’s voice comes in. “Gate code is—”
“I’ve got it.”
I’ve already seen the keypad on the left post.
I brake hard, slide the car just enough to get aligned, and punch the code in without looking down. Muscle memory. Training. Preparation.
The gate clicks.
Starts to open.
Behind us, the hatchback surges closer, headlights glaring, trying to close the gap before the exit clears.
Lark makes a sound—half prayer, half curse.
The gate rises just enough.
I gun it.
We shoot through.
The gate begins to drop behind us.
The hatchback hits the threshold—
And the driver commits.
He floors it.
The gate slams down.
Metal screams.
The hatchback’s hood crumples under the impact and the car stops dead, smoke curling up like a flare.
Silence.
For half a second, it’s just us—engine, breath, darkness.
Then Lark lets out a shaky exhale like she’s been holding her lungs since the plaza.
I don’t celebrate. I don’t relax.
Because the van is still out there.
And now they know we’re not a soft target.
I take the next turn into a dim underground access road—unfinished concrete, echoing walls—and push the car deeper until the city noise disappears behind stone.
