Page 80 of Own

“Sending,” Alphabet assured us. “Thirty seconds. Go now.”

Bones moved with ruthless precision, a storm bottled in flesh and bone. One moment he was beside me, the next he surged ahead, a blur of motion slicing down the corridor. The man in our path barely had time to register the threat—two strikes landed so fast, so clean, it was as if time had stuttered. By the time I blinked, their obstacle was crumpling soundlessly to the floor, and Bones was already moving on, as if nothing had happened.

Gunfire cracked behind us, sharp, brutal punctuation in the narrow hall. A bullet slammed into the stone just inches from myhead, coughing up dust and rock in a violent spray. I flinched, heart hammering, but Bones was already moving, jerking me forward, spinning me behind him with a force that brooked no argument, even as he returned fire.

More shots tore through the air, lighting the corridor with bursts of muzzle flash, each one a strobe of chaos. The walls pulsed with noise and heat, their footfalls pounding over broken bodies and spent casings. It was no longer about the mission. It was breath and bone, instinct and survival, the raw electricity of the moment thrumming through every nerve as we ran.

We pressed on down the corridor, the air thick with smoke that burned like acid in my lungs. The taste of blood, sulfur, and something charred clung to my tongue, turning every breath into a choke. I wanted to run, to scream, to drop and curl into the floor, but there was no time. My eyes stung, vision blurring as I blinked against the haze.

Every footstep felt loud, exposed. We darted from recess to recess, shadows barely deep enough to hide in, with Bones behind me—always behind me—keeping death at our backs with bursts of gunfire that cracked through the hall like thunder. When we reached the door, I hesitated, just for a second—and he shoved me through with enough force to steal the breath from my chest. I stumbled forward, terrified of what waited ahead but more afraid of what was closing in behind.

It was another stairwell. This one was narrow, dim, and reeking of mold and gunpowder. I took the steps two at a time, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. Bones was right behind me, a shadow breathing fire. I didn’t know how much time we had. Seconds, maybe less. The walls felt like they were closing in.

Two men waited at the bottom. Not guards. These were professionals. Tactical gear. Masks. Silent and ready.

I barely had time to register them before Bones barked, “Down!”

I dropped, heart slamming into my throat, and gunfire split the air above me. Two sharp reports. The bodies hit the ground almost in unison, crumpling like puppets with cut strings.

The bile clawing at the back of my throat finally won, souring the burn already sitting there. I gagged it down. No time. I vaulted over the bodies, legs shaking, and Bones was already behind me, hand at my back, pushing me forward.

We burst into a wine cellar, massive, cold, and sprawling. Floor-to-ceiling racks lined with dust-coated bottles loomed like silent witnesses. The air here was cooler, but it didn’t matter. Death could still bleed through the walls.

“This place has a million ways to die,” I muttered as we sprinted between the racks, the thought of bullets punching through the bottles and our bodies just one heartbeat away.

“And one way out,” Bones growled beside me, voice low and hard. “Don’t slow down, Dollface.”

I ignored the stitch in my side and ran faster.

“We’ve got smoke in the main corridor,” Lunchbox’s voice crackled over the comm, labored and strained. He was running too, probably as close to the edge as we were. “Pinned near the fountain. Vault route’s dead. Taking the east stairs. Voodoo’s covering.”

“This is me covering,” Voodoo’s voice was flat, the distant crack of gunfire punctuating his deadpan tone.

“Rendezvous moved to the garden-side greenhouse. Bravo’s almost there. Locking exterior gates now—force them into the kill zone.” The calmness in Alphabet’s delivery was chilling, like he was narrating an execution, not coordinating an escape. Every word precise, every moment under control. It was terrifying. Awe-inspiring. None of them ever cracked.

Ever.

“Remind me never to piss off Alphabet.” The words slipped out before I could catch them, and it took more breath to gasp than I’d thought. The stitch in my side flared, a fresh wave of pain shooting up my ribs.

“Nah, I got you, Gracie,” Alphabet’s voice came through, low and reassuring. The promise was grim, but it made me believe it.

We reached the end of the wine cellar, and Bones surged ahead like a predator scenting its prey. The door was locked from the inside, no surprise, but he wasted no time, ripping the bolt free with one savage yank. In one smooth, practiced motion, he shoved the service hatch open, spilling us into the cool, open air of the back gardens. The first light of dawn bled across the sky, soft and silvery, but it didn’t soothe me. Not with the sound of distant chaos still ringing in my ears.

Trees whispered above us, leaves rustling like they were hiding secrets, but before I could even feel the relief of the fresh air, an explosion tore through the cellar behind us, rattling the ground beneath our feet.

“Bravo team approaching,” Bones muttered, his grip tightening on my biceps as he yanked me closer, pulling me toward the cover of the garden.

“You bring us any wine?” Lunchbox's voice crackled through, rough and strained but still trying to crack a joke.

“Sorry,” I wheezed, struggling to catch my breath. "Didn’t really have time to stop for a bottle. But we’ve got blood and adrenaline for you."

“We’ll take it,” Voodoo’s voice was dry, but there was a hint of something else in it as he appeared from the edge of the hedge maze. Smoke-streaked, bruised, sweat glistening, he hauled an unconscious man over his shoulder like it was nothing. He lifted his chin at the sight of us, his eyes already scanning for threats.

Voodoo didn’t hesitate and shifted into position, guiding us with sharp, silent gestures while Lunchbox and Bones coveredour backs. There was a distant crack of gunfire, then two heavy thunks. They were alotcloser than before.

One of our pursuers let out a grunt, a sound that made me freeze. I didn’t want to look.

“You’re clear, Bravo. Alpha, keep moving,” Alphabet’s voice was ice-cold, the faint sound of gunfire in the background like a promise.

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