28. Underground Safe House
Chapter twenty-eight
Underground Safe House
Matt
We move through darkened streets, sticking to deep shadows, avoiding open spaces. The gunfire stopped hours ago, but the city still feels dangerous, like it’s watching us.
I adjust the grip on my rifle, sweeping our flanks as Charlie trudges ahead, shouldering some of Steele’s weight.
Bishop is slower now, his leg stiff from blood loss, but he keeps pushing.
“Coming up on the entrance,” Demo murmurs.
An abandoned warehouse looms ahead, rusted doors barely hanging on. It looks forgotten—perfect for disappearing. Demo pulls bolt cutters and snaps the rusted chain. He gives the signal, and we step inside.
Demo and I sweep the corners, rifles cutting through the dark. Nothing moves, just dust and cold concrete.
“Clear,” Demo calls.
“Clear,” I echo.
Bishop nods. “Lock it down.”
Charlie drops his pack and retrieves his med kit. “Bishop, sit your ass down,” he orders.
Bishop doesn’t argue. He settles onto an old crate, letting out a slow, controlled breath as Charlie works.
“Mason, Demo—secure entry points,” Bishop grits out. “Steele, inventory check.”
We reinforce weak spots, set tripwires, and jam doors with scrap metal. Steele, favoring his side, opens a crate and checks supply levels. His movements are stiff, his breathing tight.
“Steele,” Charlie calls without looking up from Bishop’s leg. “Take off your vest.”
“I’m fine.”
“Not asking.”
Steele mutters but manages it off. Blood streaks his flank, soaking his shirt.
Charlie kneels in front of him. “Through-and-through,” he mutters, packing gauze into the wound. “Lucky shot. Missed anything vital.”
Steele hisses. “Great. I’ll send the guy a thank-you card.”
After thirty minutes, we gather in the center of the bunker, sitting on crates, gear bags, whatever we can find. The silence is thick.
“We hold here,” Bishop finally says, voice edged with exhaustion. “No contact. We go dark until we know what the fuck is going on.”
Demo exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
No one argues, but no one likes it. I lean back against the wall, my body screaming for rest, but my mind keeps running. We barely got out alive. The street outside is quiet—a cage waiting to close.
The first forty-eight hours are hell—lights off, no fires, no talking near exits. Every movement is measured, every sound scrutinized. Trucks rumble past at night, stopping and starting like they’re searching. Distant gunfire echoes through the city, but it doesn’t come for us. Not yet.
I sit by the entrance, watching the narrow slit between the rusted doors. My fingers tap the stock of my weapon. Habit.
Charlie’s boots scuff behind me. “You need sleep.”
“I’m good.”
“Mason.”
I sigh but don’t look at him. “I’m fine.”
He lets it go. We all have our ways of dealing with this. Mine is staying awake.
Steele hunches over the laptop, cursing the slow decryption on the stolen drive. Demo paces near the shelves, checking mags—then freezes. “You hear that?”
We still.
A faint sound from the ventilation grate—careful, deliberate footsteps—then metal scraping pavement. A marker. They’re not searching. They’re marking this place.
“They found us,” Demo breathes.
“Not yet,” I whisper.
The footsteps retreat, fading into the night. No breach. No gunfire. Just a quiet message—we know you’re here.
For a long moment, no one moves.
“We need to go,” Demo whispers.
“No,” Bishop says flatly.
“You didn’t hear that?” Demo spits. “Someone just tagged this fucking building!”
“If they were planning to hit us, they would’ve done it already,” Bishop replies. His fingers curl around his knee, pain sharp but steady. “We stay dark. No movement. No mistakes.”
Demo clenches his jaw and holds it. None of us sleep that night. Even with rotating shifts the security is tight. I lie awake staring at the ceiling, gun against my chest. A truck rumbles down the street, tires crunching over gravel.
They haven’t attacked. They’re waiting.
Steele’s fingers tap rhythmically against his laptop, the glow casting sharp shadows across his face. His expression is tight, focused, frustration bleeding through.
I sit across from him, rifle balanced on my shoulder. “Tell me you’ve got something.”
He exhales sharply. “I’ve got a whole lot of nothing that helps us now.”
“You said this drive was a gold mine.”
“It is,” he concedes. “But it’s the wrong kind of big.
We could sell it to the highest bidder, sure, but it doesn’t get us out of here.
And the real intel—the stuff that matters—is still locked.
Whoever encrypted this wasn’t an amateur.
It’s layered. I can’t brute-force it without draining the battery. ”
I glance at the external power pack rigged to his laptop. Military-grade, extended-life, but not infinite. Steele’s been rationing it, powering up only in bursts.
“Okay,” I say evenly. “So what do we know?”
Steele rubs his jaw. “Private airstrip outside the city. Used for arms trafficking and moving personnel. Last logged flight two days ago.”
“And that helps us how?”
“It doesn’t. Not yet.”
Demo lets, leaning against a crate, out a sharp breath. “So, we’re sitting on a stockpile of black-market bullshit with no exit plan? No comms? No idea what comes next?”
“Would you rather I lie to you?” Steele snaps.
“Maybe. That’d be more useful than this.”
“Enough,” Bishop growls. His voice is rough, strained. “Bitching won’t change a thing.”
Demo shakes his head. “We need a plan, boss.”
“We need to determine if we can get out.” I look to Steele. “Anything on comms? Callahan? Hale? Military chatter?”
“I’ve scanned open bands,” Steele says. “Nothing. If Callahan’s out there, we can’t hear him.”
The blackout isn’t random. It’s deliberate.
Steele hesitates, then adds, “I’ve been monitoring old Aegis channels. Just in case.”
I lift a brow.
“Long shot,” he states. “Off-the-books frequencies we’ve utilized before. Most have been dead for years. But if we had to reach each other without normal channels…”
I nod. Last resort.
“Anything?”
“Nothing but static.”
Demo scoffs. “So, we’re monitoring a deadline?”
The radio crackles. We all go rigid.
A moment of interference and then— “Package lost. Possible recovery needed. Confirm status.”
The words hit like a punch. Hale. No one else would use that phrasing.
I turn to Steele. “That’s—”
“I know,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the radio.
Demo straightens. “So, we answer, yeah?”
Steele lifts a hand. “Wait.” His fingers fly, pulling broadcast data from the transmission, checking for anomalies.
“Looks clean,” he admits. “But if someone’s listening, they wouldn’t piggyback the same frequency. They’d monitor from another source.”
“Who else would be on this channel?” I ask.
“That’s the problem,” Steele mutters. “lt hasn’t been used in years. Hale either got lucky, or someone gave it to him.”
“Could be Callahan,” Charlie says.
“Or a setup,” Bishop sighs.
It shouldn’t feel this heavy, but it does. If we answer, we risk exposure. If we don’t, Hale may assume we’re dead—and we lose our only chance at recon. Either way, every second we sit here, Hale is waiting.
I look at Bishop. “Your call.”
He exhales and makes the call.
“Short burst,” he tells Steele. “Coded. No details.”
Steele sighs, but doesn’t argue, flipping the switch to transmit. “Negative on recovery. Status unchanged.”
No names. No locations. Just enough to let Hale know we’re still in the fight. The silence after is deafening.
We wait. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
The radio sputters. “Acknowledged. Stand by.”
Then static.
Demo lets out a breath. “So, what the hell does that mean?”
“Means he’s coming up with a plan,” Charlie says.
“Or it means we put a target on our backs,” Bishop mumbles.
We keep our eyes on the device. Outside, Hale moves through the dark of Niamey. We just have to hope he isn’t leading something worse straight to us.