Page 133 of Painted Scars
Momof3:Name the place, and my sisters will bring the baseball bats.
I exchange a smile with Grayson, pleased my article is hitting the right audience, and they’ll fight with me. “Whew. The mob’s out for Burt’s blood.”
Grayson gives me a measured smile. I can see why Charlie likes him. He’s introverted like her, but with quiet strength.
A sharp beep slices through the bunker, breaking up our triumphant moment.
Lights flash, and Grayson’s attention snaps back to his monitor. “Motion sensors in the east perimeter. August and Katar don’t enter that way.”
My heart leaps up my throat. I try to convince myself it’s just a delinquent kid looking for trouble.
Grayson’s chair skids back, rolling into the wall as he launches upright. He moves to another computer and enters in keys. “Three heat signatures moving this way fast.”
Fuck. That’s no kid. The Romans found us. Traced our location somehow.
I fumble for my phone to contact August and get him back here to take care of it. “I thought August said your network is secure.”
“It is. They’ve tracked us by other means.” He glances at me. “Give me your phone. You didn’t leave it alone, did you?”
I think and answer, “When I went to the bathroom at work.”
He removes my Morally Gray Bitch phone cover and rips off a small chip. “They slipped a GPS chip here.” He snaps it in two and drops it on the floor.
“I… I’m sorry,” I start.
Grayson’s jaw tenses, and he punches in a few keys and the screens go black. Lights die in the servers a moment later. “We’re leaving. Now. Grab whatever you can carry.”
Fuck. I stuff my things into the bag his friend delivered for me.
He snatches up a duffel bag and slides his laptop and power adapter into it. My throat dries when he arms himself with the gun on the warped bench.
“This way.” His thin voice makes my stomach drop.
Gun in hand, he takes the lead up the stairs, stopping at the top. His fingers stutter over the keypad, the system flashing red with the wrong password.
“Grayson—” I say.
“Just… give me a second.” The words come out clipped.
He tries again, and I’m afraid of the three strike policy locking us in.
I brush him away. “Give me the key.”
He does and I punch it in. The door releases and I yank it open.
Oh, thank God.Rational Me was about to consider something crazy, like try the vent system next.
We stumble into the hall, his breath coming in short gasps. His eyes dart to the walls like they’re closing in on him. My gut sinks at the creaking gun from his twitching fingers. I recognize the signs because I’ve been there more times than I care to count. Tight chest that doesn’t let in air. Static ringing in the ears. Clammy skin. Disorientation and nervous system crashing. Shit, he’s having a panic attack. The last thing we need when we require a fast getaway and time isn’t on our side.
I catch his arm to steady him. “Slow those breaths, Grayson. Breathe with me. We’re not getting far with you in the throes of anxiety.”
His wide pupils flick to mine in a quick, embarrassed flash.
“Come on.” I tug him forward, but he’s heavy.
“Charlie,” he wheezes, fumbling for his phone.
“What about Charlie?” I shove him two steps.
