Elite guards. Cross's personal security, which means she's close.
"Get the children to the extraction point," I tell Asher. "I'll handle this."
"Like hell you will."
"We don't have time to argue. Someone has to get these kids out, and someone has to deal with the guards. You're better with the children. I'm better with violence."
"That’s not true and you know—"
"Asher." I meet his eyes. The boy is still limp in my arms, a reminder of everything at stake. "I'll be right behind you. I promise."
He wants to argue. I can see it in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. But he knows I'm right. And we're out of time.
"Five minutes," he says. "Then I'm coming back for you."
"Make it ten. I want to enjoy myself."
I hand him the boy and turn toward the east corridor. Behind me, Asher starts organizing the evacuation, his voice calm and steady as he directs the children and the rest of the team toward the exit.
Ahead of me, footsteps echo off the tile. Getting closer.
I check my rifle. Full magazine. Thirty rounds. More than enough for six guards. More than enough for the woman waiting at the end of this nightmare.
The first guard rounds the corner, and I put two in his chest before he can raise his weapon. The suppressed shots are quiet, sharp coughs in the sterile air, but the impact is loud. He drops, blood spreading across the white tile, and the corridor explodes into chaos.
Muzzle flashes strobe the darkness. Bullets whine past my head, punch holes in the walls, send chips of tile spraying across my face. The guards are good, trained, moving in formation and laying down coordinated fire.
I move without thinking, years of training taking over, my body flowing through the violence like water through cracks. Slide behind a gurney, pop up, two shots, one guard down. Roll left, come up shooting, another guard staggers back with red blooming across his tactical vest.
Two more guards down. Then a third. The fourth catches me with a round to the vest, the impact like a hammer blow to my ribs, driving the air from my lungs. The ceramic plate holds, but the bruise is going to be spectacular. I stay on my feet through sheer stubbornness and put him down with a headshot that paints the wall behind him in red and gray.
Two left. They've found cover behind a nurses' station, laying down suppressive fire that pins me behind a support column. Bullets chew into the concrete inches from my face, spraying dust and debris.
"Jinx, status." Jagger's voice in my ear.
"Engaged. Four down, two remaining. I've got it."
"Cross is on the move. Surveillance shows her heading for the administrative wing. If she reaches the secure exit, we lose her."
The secure exit. Her escape route. A private elevator that leads to a helipad on the roof. If she gets through that door, she disappears into the wind and we never find her again. She'll surface in six months with a new facility, new children, new horrors.
"Copy." I pull a flashbang from my vest, yank the pin. "I'm on it."
I toss the grenade around the column and squeeze my eyes shut, mouth open to equalize the pressure. The bang is deafening, and it rattles my teeth and reverberates through my chest. The guards cry out, blinded and disoriented, and I'm moving before the echo fades.
Two shots. Two bodies. Clean, center mass, no hesitation.
The corridor is silent except for the ringing in my ears and the distant sounds of Asher guiding children toward safety. His voice carries through the facility, calm and reassuring, a lifeline for the terrified kids following him toward freedom.
Administrative wing. That's where she'll be. In her office, destroying evidence, covering her tracks. Preparing to vanish and start again somewhere else.
Not this time. Not ever again.
I start running.
The administrative wing is a different world from the children's cells.
Carpeted floors. Wood paneling. Artwork on the walls, tasteful landscapes. The kind of décor designed to impress investors and reassure visitors that this is a legitimate operation. A place of healing, not horror.
