Page 53 of Reckless Consequences

“He was waiting for us.” The realization hits with cold certainty. “Mona’s intelligence said he wasn’t supposed to be here.”

“Tactical misdirection,” Finn concludes. “Deliberately false information in their system.”

The claiming marks on my neck burn, the pack bond stretching thin as danger strains the connection. Through this link, I feel the others’ alarm as they encounter unexpected resistance—Ryker’s tactical focus sharpening, Jinx’s feral nature surging, Theo’s protective instincts flaring.

“Correction.” Finn’s voice remains steady though his fingers tremble slightly. “This was a trap. Past tense.”

Through our pack bond, I feel distant alarm—Ryker and Jinx encountering unexpected resistance. The connection stretches thin, distance weakening the signal. Unlike when I infiltrated Sterling Labs alone, I instinctively reach through the bond, trying to send warning—danger, trap, Alexander. I’m not sure how much gets through, the ability still new and unreliable, but I have to try.

“Upload at fifty-seven percent,” Finn reports. “Two minutes remaining.”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

Security doors slam throughout the facility, isolation protocols engaging. Our comm units fill with static, connection to Ryker and Jinx failing as facility systems jam external signals. The pack bonds remain, stretched thin but unbroken—faint threads connecting us across increasing distance.

“Eighty-four percent,” Finn updates. “Ninety seconds.”

I check the security feed again. Teams approaching from both directions, closing in with methodical precision.

“We need another exit.” I scan the room desperately. “Maintenance shaft? Ventilation system?”

“Negative.” Finn’s assessment is clinical. “All potential exits covered. Probability of successful escape currently at twenty-three percent and falling.”

“Not acceptable.”

“Ninety-six percent upload.”

The room’s lighting shifts to emergency mode, bathing everything in pulsing red. Warning klaxons blare through the facility. The security feed shows Alexander’s teams converging on our position, now less than sixty seconds out.

“Upload complete,” Finn announces, removing the drive with careful precision.

“Now we run.”

But outside, heavy footsteps approach from both directions. We’re trapped in the server room, caught between converging security teams with nowhere to go.

Through our stretched pack bond, I feel Ryker’s concern and Jinx’s rage—both too distant to help, their emotions reaching me with the faintness of a radio signal at maximum range. Theo registers as a distant beacon of worry at extraction point. All beyond immediate reach, yet still connected by threads that refuse to break despite the strain.

I can smell Alexander’s approach—cold metal and alpine forest with undertones of clinical sterility. I can hear his footsteps, the pattern as familiar as my own heartbeat despite our limited interaction. Most disturbing, I feel a strange resonance as he approaches—genetic recognition, blood calling to blood.

I look at Finn, still recovering from a virus that nearly killed him, and make my decision.

“I’ll create a distraction,” I say, already moving toward the door. “When they focus on me, you slip out and get to extraction point.”

His hand catches my wrist, fingers pressing against pulse points. “Negative. Unacceptable strategy.”

“This isn’t a debate.” Six months ago, this would have been my only plan—sacrifice myself, run solo, protect others by separation.

“Correct. It’s basic tactical analysis.” His eyes meet mine with unwavering certainty. Through our bond, I feel his conviction that separation decreases survival probability. Not just calculation but bone-deep certainty that pack strength multiplies rather than divides when facing threats together.

“Finn—”

“No.” One word, firm and certain.

Before I can argue further, security teams become visible at both corridor ends. Heavy boots, tactical gear, weapons ready. Alexander walks with measured steps at their center, expression coldly triumphant. His scent reaches me despite distance and neutralizer—cold metal and alpine forest, eerily similar to our father’s but lacking the warmth that Ryker’s similar scent carries.

The Sterling DNA in my blood responds to his proximity with disturbing intensity. My already enhanced senses sharpen further, the claiming marks burning with renewed urgency as they fight against the genetic pull of Sterling blood.

After years of running, I’ve finally hit a dead end. The irony would be amusing if it weren’t so terrifying.

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