Page 77 of Dark Rebel's Mystery

Unless there was a chamber pot in the cell.

She sniffed the air, but other than the stale smell of moldy walls, nothing would indicate a pot with anything in it.

Kyra exhaled shakily.

"Soran… Zara…Hamid," she whispered.

She wanted to believe those dear faces would come barreling through the door, cutting down any guard standing in their way and freeing her. But it was nearly suicidal for a unit of Kurdish fighters to storm a secure compound that housed several enhanced soldiers.

Just listening to the commotion released a fresh wave of adrenaline that burned through the sedative and gave her a bit of clarity. She groaned and pulled, but the rattling clank of the cuffs reminded her that even if she mustered some supernaturalstrength, these new chains were designed for someone as strong as her.

The doctor had learned from his past mistakes.

A thunderous boom rattled the overhead light. Maybe a grenade or a heavy blast. The building itself seemed to quiver, and dust drifted from the ceiling.

Kyra sucked in a breath, tasting grit on her tongue.

Shots rang out again, a flurry of them, followed by shrill shouts in multiple languages. She couldn't parse them, but the raw panic carried through. She pressed the back of her head against the flat cushion, imagining the courtyard in chaos.

A strange knot twisted in her chest, a tangled mix of guilt and longing. If it truly was her people, how many would die trying to rescue her? The thought made her stomach twist so violently that she feared she would vomit.

She closed her eyes, tears gathering under her lids.

She was so tired. So unbelievably tired.

A strangled cry penetrated the thick walls—someone near her cell—the scuff of footsteps, then a low moan. Kyra's eyes snapped open, adrenaline surging. If a fight was that close, maybe the front lines of the incursion had pushed deeper into the building. She jerked at her wrist cuffs again, ignoring the tearing pain.

There was no give. Gritting her teeth, she tried thrashing her legs, but the chain at her ankles was no kinder.

"Damn it," she hissed, frustration and desperation eating away at what was left of her sanity.

Gunfire flared anew, stuttering so close now that she felt the floor vibrating. Another explosion rocked the corridor, sending a muted tremor through the bed frame. Her breath caught. Something large had definitely blown up. Possibly a door or a security barrier.

She fought not to black out again.

A guard barked an order, and a distinct pop of rifles answered, forcing a hush. Kyra prayed to whatever deity that would listen that the rebels had made it inside, that the enhanced soldiers were dead, and for the door to her cell to burst open, followed by the familiar faces of her friends.

She almost chuckled at how her imagination ran wild.

Noise crackled in the hallway—the shuffle of boots, clipped curses.

Her lungs itched with the need to call out, but she didn't know who was out there. If it was the doctor or his men, a shout might sign her death warrant. If it was her allies, a cry for help might bring them right to her.

Another sharp rattle of gunfire overhead. Then, a thunderous silence. She froze, ears straining for the slightest hint of voices, footsteps, or anything. The silence pressed on her eardrums, so absolute it made her breathing sound deafening. That hush was worse than the noise. Because she had no idea what it meant. Had the rebels won? Or were they all dead?

Her eyes drifted shut, forced by exhaustion. Her body trembled, each spasm making the cuffs dig deeper into her wrists. She recognized a slow trickle of warmth from the raw chafing, but pain hardly registered. How many had already fallen if it was indeed her friends battling out there? How many more woulddie if reinforcements arrived? She willed them to hold on, to prevail with fewer casualties than she dared guess. The idea that her team might be lying in pools of blood was too horrific to consider.

"Just stay alive," she murmured. "Please."

Her head swam, the world tilting. For a moment, she wanted to surrender to that blackness so she wouldn't have to face the truth if it was dire. Instead, she clenched her fists and held on, clinging to consciousness like a drowning woman holding on to driftwood.

Gunshots echoed once more, faint but definitely close. A final flash of adrenaline surged through her, stopping her from sinking under. She listened desperately, waiting for familiar voices or footsteps that might burst through the door.

None came. Yet.

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