Then, the sound returns all at once.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
Automatic fire. Loud. Deafening.
It isn’t like the movies. It isn’t a clean pop-pop. It’s a chaotic roar that shakes the floorboards. Wood splinters. Books explode off the shelves, turning into confetti. The air fills with drywall dust and the acrid, burning smell of explosives.
“Down!” Cassian roars.
He’s firing, standing in the open with the stolen rifle shouldered, pouring fire into the smoke-filled doorway. He isn’t taking cover. He’s being cover, drawing their fire away from me.
I scramble behind the sofa, clutching the pistol with both hands. I’m shaking. My teeth are chattering so hard I think they might crack.
Soft targets. Don’t freeze.
“Varro!” Cassian shouts over the gunfire. “Hold the door!”
“Go!” Varro yells back. He’s crouched behind the overturned desk, firing a submachine gun. Empty brass casings rain onto the floor around him. “Get her to the tunnels! I’ll buy you time!”
Without hesitating, Cassian grabs my arm, hauling me to my feet.
“Move,” he barks.
He drags me toward the back of the study. Not toward a door, but toward the wall of bookshelves.
Bullets chew up the floor behind us.Thwack-thwack-thwack.
I look back. Through the haze of smoke, I see black shapes moving in the doorway. Thin beams slice through the dust, visible only because the smoke is thick.
One of them spots us. He raises his weapon.
“Iris, light!” Cassian commands.
Without thinking, I raise the pistol and thumb the pressure switch on the side, just like he showed me.
A beam of blinding white light stabs across the room.
It hits the soldier in the face. He flinches, dazzled by the sudden glare.
It buys us a second.
Cassian fires. One shot. The soldier drops.
“Good,” Cassian growls. “Now go!”
He hits a hidden panel behind a row of thick volumes. The shelf clicks and swings inward, revealing a narrow, dark passage. The smell of damp stone and old dust rushes out to meet us.
“Inside,” he commands. “Go.”
I stumble into the darkness. Cassian follows, pulling the bookcase shut behind us. The mechanism engages with a clunk. The roar of the battle is instantly muffled, cut in half by the wood and steel shielding. It feels like we stepped into a coffin.
“Keep moving,” he says, pushing me forward. “Hand on the wall. Don’t stop.”
I fumble for the wall. The stone is cold and rough against my palms.
“Where are we going?” I gasp. My lungs are burning. The adrenaline is spiking so hard I’m dizzy.
“Servant passages.” His voice is tight, controlled. “They run behind the wainscoting. We can bypass the Great Hall and get to the bunker access.”
