We move.
I’m running blind. My boots clunk against the uneven floor. The passage is narrow, barely wide enough for Cassian’s shoulders. The air is stale, thick with decades of dust.
The lessons from the gym swirl in my head, mixed with the terror. I grip the pistol so hard my knuckles ache.
We turn a sharp corner. The passage widens slightly. There’s a sliver of light up ahead—a ventilation grate near the floor.
Cassian is right behind me, a wall of solid, tense muscle.
“Wait,” he whispers.
He stops, grabbing my shoulder to pull me back against his chest.
“What?”
“Hush.”
He presses a hand over my mouth.
I freeze.
Through the thin ceiling of the passage, I hear it.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Heavy boots on hardwood, moving right above us.
Dust sifts down from the ceiling boards, landing in my hair.
“Clear left,” a muffled voice says from above. “Check the panels.”
My pulse beats so loud I’m terrified they can hear it through the floorboards.
Cassian leans in close to my ear.
“They’re sweeping the perimeter,” he breathes. “They know about the tunnels. Someone gave them the architectural plans.”
The realization punches the breath out of my lungs. Someone sold the blueprints. We aren’t hiding. We’re being hunted in a maze our enemy already mapped.
“We have to get to the junction,” Cassian mumbles. “Before they cut us off.”
He removes his hand from my mouth.
“Move,” he says. “Quietly.”
We start moving again. Slower this time.
I place my feet carefully, rolling toe-to-heel to avoid stomping. The darkness presses in. Every shadow looks like a man with a gun. Every creak of the house sounds like a breach.
We reach a junction. The servant passage intersects with a wider maintenance corridor that leads to the boiler room. Pipes run along the ceiling here, hissing with steam pressure.
We round the corner—and run straight into him.
A soldier.
He must have breached the tunnel from the boiler room access. He’s huge, his black tactical gear bulking out his frame. We couldn’t be more than ten feet apart. There’s nowhere to hide. He sees us instantly, raising his rifle without a shout or a call for backup.
My muscles lock. The black bore of the suppressor points dead at my chest. He’s aiming right at me.
