Burned ozone.
Mara.
I found her near a collapsed bulkhead, one arm bleeding, the other steadying a young guard. She saw me and exhaled hard.
“We got separated in the crush,” Mara said. “Then the raiders pushed through. Three of them drove into the east corridor. She didn’t come back out.”
“How long?”
“Minutes. Maybe less.”
I gripped her uninjured shoulder. “Hold the line.”
She nodded once and turned back to the fight.
The eastern corridor reeked of oil and chemical sedatives.
Her torch lay near the wall, still burning—its handle bent under a boot.
I followed the tracks.
Three sets of prints, fresh, leading into the storage shafts. Toward the service lift. Toward the lower galleries where old mining equipment lay buried in dust.
I moved faster.
Voices carried up through the metal.
“…worth a fortune to the Enclave boys…”
“…or we keep her…”
My vision narrowed.
I dropped through the access hatch.
The first man turned too late. My rifle butt caught him under the jaw. Bone gave.
The second swung his weapon toward me.
I fired once.
He hit the bulkhead and slid down.
The third dragged Lina in front of him, arm locked around her throat, gun pressed to her temple.
“Stay back!” he shouted. “You move; she dies!”
Lina’s eyes met mine.
Alive. Aware.
“I don’t think she dies today,” I said.
He tightened his grip. “You care. I can see it—”
I moved.
Three steps. One breath.
