I cross the room and stare at the floor near the threshold. A puddle of rainwater stains the slate, and a razor-thin shard of crystal from my decanter is jammed into the magnetic track. The lock is severed.
Fuck.
She didn't just walk out. She broke out.
I cross the room and shove the glass panel open. The wind slams into me, violent and freezing. Rain lashes my face like buckshot.
I step out onto the stone terrace, grip the railing, and look over the side.
The narrow, grated iron maintenance stairwell is howling under the wind. Going down these stairs in a storm like this is a death wish.
She could’ve fallen. Hell, she most definitely did.
“Varro!” I roar, tapping my comms collar. “Status!”
“Holding the line at the Main Gate,” his voice crackles, breathless. “We pushed them back to the fountain. We’re?—”
“The girl is out!” I shout. “She breached the room! Sector 9. North wall!”
“What?” There’s a pause as keys clack furiously. “Scanning... Fuck. I have a heat signature on the service road. She’s moving fast.”
She’s alive.
Relief floods through me.
The service road. She’s alive and hasn’t gotten far.
“Is it clear?” I demand.
“Negative,” he says. “She crossed the perimeter line.”
“The convoy,” I say. “Are they moving?”
“One of the SUVs just went active,” he says. “Black Chevy. It’s moving to intercept her. It’s a trap, Cassian. They waited for her to come out.”
She isn’t running to freedom. She’s running straight into the kill box.
“They’ll have her in thirty seconds,” he warns. “You can’t get there. Stick to the protocol. Secure the house.”
“Fuck the protocol.”
I spin around and sprint.
I run for the private elevator in the west wing—the direct line to the garage—and smash the button. The doors slide open instantly.
I step in. “Garage level. Override speed.”
The car drops. I map the road in my head. The curve. The impact point.
The doors open on the lower level. My armored G-Wagon is waiting—four tons of matte black steel and bulletproof glass. Tonight, I need a battering ram.
I slide into the driver’s seat and hit the ignition, waking the V8 into a roar that shakes the concrete walls. I punch the remote. The heavy garage door begins to rise, but it's moving too slow.
The second it clears the roofline, I dump the gear and floor it. The tires break loose, screaming against the concrete before they bite hard and launch the truck forward. It clears the bottom edge by inches as I hit the wet asphalt, the massive weight of the vehicle fighting for grip.
The tires fight the rain, biting into the pavement. The rear end kicks out, fishtailing violently.
I wrestle the wheel, correcting the slide.
