Page 87 of Fated in A Time of War
I don’t shoot.
Iwanthim alive.
I sprint after him, boots hammering against the steel grating. My vision narrows, the world funneled into a blur of red and movement. He slips down a side corridor, panting loud. I follow the sound—his breath, his fear, the slap of panic in his steps.
He tries to slam a door shut behind him.
I shoulder through it.
His back hits the wall. He raises his rifle.
I’m faster.
One hand on the muzzle, twist, crack. The other on his throat, claws digging just deep enough to draw blood.
“Where is she?” I growl.
He chokes, squirming, legs kicking against mine. “Top floor,” he gasps. “Observation cage. Same level as the dig console—northwest quadrant.”
I lean in until my breath sears his ear. “Thanks.”
Then I drop him. Hard. Not to the ground—to the edge of the stairwell. His scream cuts off sharp as his spine hits metal.
I don’t look back.
The rage doesn’t burn. It doesn’t howl.
Itfreezes.
Sharp and surgical, curling around my bones like frostbite.
They spoke about her like she was cargo. Like she was property. Like she wasn’tAlice.
I move fast now, climbing internal access ladders, bypassing main lifts. They’ve rerouted security power to the lower excavation lifts—stupid move. That leaves the upper decks stretched thin.
I reach a substation junction halfway up. The smell of ozone and sparking coolant burns in my nose. Perfect.
I pull open the panel. Wires spill out, still warm. I jam one of my charges into the center bundle, twist two live lines together, and slap the casing shut.
Timer: twelve seconds.
I move.
Next junction—same pattern. Third one, I rig to short out everything north of the structural supports. When these go off, the whole level will choke in darkness.
The alarm klaxons won’t even get a chance to warm up.
By the time I’m four stories from the top, the lights above me stutter. The hum of overhead systems dies a slow death, like a beast bleeding out.
Perfect.
The stairwell glows orange from emergency strips now, casting shadows thick enough to swim through.
I press a hand to the wall. It’s warmer here. Too much activity above—consoles, engines, excavation equipment. The floor vibrates, slight and rhythmic. Power tools. Maybe tunneling rigs.
But the vibrations don’t mask the sound of her.
Her heartbeat.
