Chapter 67 Beckett
Beckett
The city didn’t sleep—it hunted.
Every alley we passed was another mouth waiting to swallow us. Hydra wasn’t chasing anymore. They were steering us, narrowing our path block by block, until the only direction left would be the one Grand wanted.
I could feel it.
“Cyclone,” I barked. “Talk to me.”
“Feeds are bad—too much interference,” his voice cracked through the comms. “But it looks like patrols ahead, three streets over. Heavier weapons. They’re herding us into the industrial zone.”
Exactly where I didn’t want to be.
“Not happening,” I growled.
River snorted. “Good to hear you still hate orders, Beckett. What’s the play?”
I scanned the street—collapsed balconies, burnt-out cars, shattered windows. Every shadow moved like it had teeth. But Elara’s hand brushed mine again, subtle, quick, grounding me even here.
“The play is simple,” I said. “We don’t let them dictate the ground. We take it back.”
Oliver raised a brow. “And how exactly do you want to flip an ambush in the middle of Hydra’s backyard?”
I chambered another round, shoulders tight, pulse hammering steady. “By being louder than the sons of bitches chasing us.”
Before anyone could argue, I stepped out into the open, rifle raised, and cut down the first Hydra soldier creeping from the alley. His body hit the ground with a thud that cracked the silence. Then the street erupted again—gunfire, shouts, shadows spilling from the dark.
“Push forward!” I roared. “We bleed them here before Grand tightens the noose!”
The Team surged with me, a storm unleashed in the heart of Hydra’s city.
Elara stayed on my flank, pistol snapping sharp, steady even as bullets carved the stone around her. She wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was fighting. With me.
And God help Hydra—because they had no idea how hard I was willing to burn this city to keep her free.