The bedroom door shudders under a boot. Rounds punch through the wood, buzzing like hornets. Wood chips spray my face.
Wren drops into the dark. I follow, one-armed down the ladder, just as the door gives way behind me with a crash.
"Clear the room." Above us. Close.
I reach up with my right hand and yank the trapdoor down. Heavy wood slams into place. I throw the deadbolt I installed on the underside.
Darkness swallows us.
Cool air.Damp earth and mold. Above us, muffled footsteps thunder on the floorboards—tearing the room apart. They'll find the hatch in seconds. They'll breach it in minutes.
"Wren."
"Here." Close. Trembling. "I'm here."
I lean against the dirt wall, clutching my arm. The pain is arriving now—a deep, throbbing ache syncing with my heartbeat. Blood running down my fingers.
"Move," I grit out. "Left wall. Count your steps. Don't stop."
"Your arm?—"
"Works enough to hold a gun. Move."
We scramble through the blackness. The tunnel is narrow, shored with rough timber, built for a fire escape, not a tactical retreat while bleeding out. Every step jars the arm. My vision swims.
I focus on the sound of Wren breathing ahead of me.
Keep her moving. Keep her safe.
A muffledTHUMPshakes dirt from the ceiling. They're working the hatch.
"Faster."
She picks up the pace. Her voice comes back in a frantic undertone, counting steps. "Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four..."
Sixty yards to the exit. Sixty yards to the tree line. Then six miles to the highway through a dark forest, with Ivan Kova's remaining team hunting us from behind.
I check the Glock. One magazine. Fourteen rounds.
I check myself. Losing blood fast. Too fast.
If they catch us in the woods, I can't fight them. Not like this.
Wren is going to have to save us.
And God help me, I hope the training was enough.
TWELVE
Wren
The darknessof the tunnel ends not with light, but with a different shade of black.
My hands hit wood—the exit hatch. I stop, listening. Behind me, Kade's breathing is ragged, wet, and terrifyingly loud in the confined space.
"Push it." A wheeze. "Slowly."
I put my shoulder against the wood and push. The counterweights do their job, the heavy door lifting with a groan muffled by the layer of glued-on rocks and moss camouflage.
