Page 61 of Damian
Gunfire erupted instantly, deafening in the tight space. Muzzle flashes lit the walls, sparks showering from shattered servers as bullets tore through metal.
“Left side!” Gage roared, dropping low and firing three tight shots that cut two men down. I fell back, when the bullet hit my shoulder, but I didn’t go all the way down.
Oliver took the right, his rifle spitting controlled bursts, his teeth bared in a grim smile. “They’re guarding something—center rack, back wall!”
I pressed forward, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, a wall of noise slamming into me. Every step was a fight. My rifle kicked, my body a machine of precision, but underneath it all a single thought kept beating, louder than the gunfire:Morgan.
Cyclone ducked behind an overturned table, his laptop already plugged into a nearby port. “I need sixty seconds!” he shouted over the chaos.
“You’ve got thirty!” I barked, squeezing off another round. A body dropped at my feet, and I stepped over it without slowing.
Bullets sliced the air, one close enough to burn across my shoulder. Pain flared hot, but I shoved it down. Nothing mattered except keeping Cyclone alive long enough to pull what we came for—and getting back to her.
“Damian!” Oliver’s voice cut sharp. He pointed to the far corner, where a man in black was hauling something from a cabinet—hard drives, stacked in a case.
I didn’t think. I moved.
Gunfire tracked me as I sprinted across the floor, the case almost in the man’s grip. I dove, slammed him back against the cabinet, the rifle butt cracking hard against his jaw. The case tumbled free. I grabbed it, yanking it to my chest as he crumpled.
Cyclone’s voice rose, wild with triumph. “Got it! Full transfer—coordinates locked! We’ve got the hub!”
“Then we’re done,” I snarled. “Fall back!”
The team tightened, covering Cyclone as he tore the cord free and clutched his laptop like it was gold. The alarms screamed overhead, red lights strobing against steel walls. More boots thundered on the catwalk above—reinforcements. Too many.
We didn’t have time to clear them all.
But we had what we came for.
“Out! Now!”
We fought our way back toward the stairwell, the air thick with smoke and gunpowder, my body burning with the need to finish this, to end Luthor here. But another voice—hers—cut through the noise.
Come back to me.
I would. No matter how many men I had to cut down on the way.
83
Damian
The stairwell was a kill box.
Gunfire rained down from the landing above, bullets sparking off the railings, biting into the walls. We dove for cover, Oliver throwing himself against the far side, Gage crouched low, rifle braced tight. Cyclone hugged his laptop like a lifeline, pressed flat against the steps.
“They’re flooding the exits,” Gage snarled. “We’re boxed in.”
“Not for long,” I growled.
I signaled Oliver. He nodded, already pulling a flash from his vest. A quick thumb on the pin, then he lobbed it up the stairwell. The world exploded white. Shouts. Chaos.
We moved.
I charged up the steps, rifle spitting fire. Two men dropped before they could recover from the flash, another scrambling blindly into the railing. I slammed the butt of my weapon into his jaw, felt the crunch, then kept going.
“Clear!” I shouted, and the others surged behind me.
The second-floor corridor stretched ahead, smoke curling,alarms still screaming. More boots pounded toward us—reinforcements from the far end.
