Chapter 18 Luka #2
The drive continues in tense silence. I watch the landscape roll past, the familiar terrain offering little comfort.
My mind runs through contingencies, backup plans for the backup plans.
Every detail matters when lives are on the line, especially these lives.
Sage has become more than a responsibility.
She's become necessary, and that terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.
By the time we reach the Denver outskirts, the sky is fully awake.
The facility rises from a stretch of private land, a modern structure of stone and glass surrounded by pine.
Discreet cameras blink along the gate posts.
Every inch of the property is monitored, every staff member vetted.
It's as close to safe as I can make anything in this world.
Misha speaks into his comms. “Kolya, hold position by the main drive. I will secure the interior.”
I step out first. Gravel crunches underfoot, the air tinged with antiseptic and pine sap.
Vega jumps out beside me, alert, scanning.
His ears swivel, tracking sounds I can't hear.
The dog's instincts are sharper than most men, and I've learned to trust them.
Sage hesitates only long enough for me to catch the anxiety in her eyes before she follows.
Inside, the temperature drops. The facility hums with quiet order, filled with muted voices, distant beeps, and the faint scent of disinfectant.
A nurse at the front desk glances up, recognition flashing before she lowers her gaze again.
They know who I am here and what I represent.
Fear is a useful tool when applied correctly.
Albert meets us by the security doors. His size dwarfs the narrow corridor, his stance relaxed but ready. The man is a wall of muscle and violence when necessary, but he knows how to temper it in places like this. “She's awake and dressed. Paperwork is being processed now.”
“Any unusual activity this morning?” I ask.
“Nothing. Staff rotations are on schedule. Cameras are clear.”
Good. That's what I want to hear. But the tension coiled in my gut doesn't ease. Something feels off, a wrongness I can't name yet.
Sage moves ahead before I can stop her, the sight of the hallway pulling her forward like a magnet. I follow close enough that Vega's shoulder grazes my leg. The dog stays between us and the rest of the facility, protective instincts on full display.
Hope sits on the side of the bed in a private recovery room, sunlight stretching across her lap. Her skin is pale, but her eyes are bright, that familiar Bellamy blue. When she spots Sage, her expression transforms, relief, disbelief, and joy all crossing her features in rapid succession.
“Sage.”
Sage crosses the room in seconds, pulling her into a hug.
The sound that leaves Hope is half-laugh, half-sob.
Vega settles near the wall, his tail sweeping the floor once.
I stand near the doorway, watching. Misha lingers behind me, arms crossed, eyes scanning every exit.
The reunion is touching, but we can't afford sentimentality right now.
“I'm okay,” Hope insists, though her voice trembles. “I promise, I'm okay.”
Sage cups her sister's face. “You scared me. You always do.”
Hope smiles faintly. “You look different. Happier.” Her eyes slide toward me before returning to Sage. “Is that because of him?”
Sage flushes, color rising in her cheeks. “It's because you're safe.”
She takes Hope's hand, her thumb tracing the IV bruise that's already fading. “You're coming with us,” Sage whispers. “You'll stay at the cabin where you'll be safe.”
Hope frowns. “What about home?”
“There is no home,” Sage admits, her voice soft but certain. “Not right now.”
The truth of it burns somewhere low in my chest. Home isn't a place for any of us. It's whatever is still standing after the smoke clears.
Albert steps in. “Discharge forms are ready. Transport team is on standby near the loading bay.”
“Good,” I reply. “Escort the nurse to finalize the paperwork, then meet me in the control room.”
He nods once, already scanning the hallway. “Understood.”
Sage glances back at me as Hope leans on her arm. Her eyes carry a hundred questions she doesn't voice. I answer them with a nod, quiet, deliberate assurance.
While Sage helps her sister gather her things, Albert moves to the doorway, speaking briefly with the head nurse before guiding her toward the administrative wing.
Vega rises from his place near the wall, his ears pricking at my movement.
He pads after me without command, a silent shadow falling into step at my side as we leave the room.
I follow Misha toward the control room, the air cooler there, humming with low machinery.
Screens cover the wall, cycling through live footage from the property, including the front gate, drive, and patient wings.
Albert joins us a minute later, the echo of his boots fading as he shuts the door behind him.
Albert folds his arms. “Kolya is ready on channel two. He will take point on the return.”
I lean over the central desk, mapping the route on the screen. My finger traces the path back to Aspen Ridge, noting intersections and potential choke points. “Kolya leads. We will switch lanes every fifteen minutes until we are clear of the city.”
Misha's gaze moves toward the monitor showing Sage and Hope. “She is nervous.”
“She has reason to be.”
A nurse appears at the door. “We'll have Miss Bellamy ready for transport in ten minutes.”
“Good.” I straighten, smoothing my hand over my tie out of habit more than need. “Stay sharp. If anyone so much as hesitates in the wrong place, shut it down.”
Albert nods and exits, his steps solid and precise.
I turn toward the main monitor where their image fills the frame.
Sage is carefully helping Hope into her coat.
Vega lies at my feet, alert and still, his gaze fixed on the screen as if he understands what’s at stake.
There’s no sound, only the silent footage of two women moving through a calm that doesn’t belong to my world.
Misha checks his watch. “We should get her out before noon. Less traffic, fewer eyes.”
“Agreed.”
For a while, everything unfolds as planned. The final forms are signed. The nurses prepare Hope's medications. Sage gathers the few belongings from her bedside: a paperback, a folded cardigan, and a worn sketchbook. I catalog every movement, every face, every stir of the air. It's too still.
Then the first sound breaks the calm. A monitor beeps somewhere down the hall. Once. Twice. Louder. Then the alarm bursts into life, a high, insistent wail that splits the air.
Sage flinches, instinct pulling her closer to Hope.
A nurse runs down the corridor. “Code blue, room fourteen! We need assistance!”
Misha's head snaps up. His hand goes to his weapon out of reflex.
Albert moves instantly, stepping aside to clear the corridor. “Get the medics through,” he orders, his voice even but sharp. He positions himself at the door's edge, scanning each passing staff member. His training is for combat, not chaos like this, but he adapts fast.
I step to the threshold, my eyes narrowing on the rush of uniforms. A gurney wheels past. A young male nurse shouts for an oxygen tank. Another slams into the wall trying to turn the corner. It's all too loud, too fast.
Misha mutters, “They're overreacting.”
“They're acting,” I correct.
The word lands hard between us. Because everything, the timing, the urgency, the sudden emergency in a neighboring room, falls into place too perfectly. Ten minutes before our departure. Just enough noise to draw my men away from their posts.
Misha unholsters his gun, the metallic click loud beneath the blare of alarms.
Down the hall, Albert leans forward, eyes following the medics as they shove through a swinging door. For a heartbeat, everything feels suspended, the moment before impact when instinct tries to warn you and logic tries to explain it away.
Then the lights flicker. Just once. Barely enough for anyone else to notice. But I see it. I hear the subtle grind of mechanical locks releasing somewhere deeper in the facility.
My breath slows.
“Misha,” I call out, already moving. “Something's wrong.”
He turns toward me, his weapon lifted. “What did you—”
“Hallway,” I cut in, stepping into motion. “Now.”
The alarms wail louder, echoing through sterile corridors, and every instinct I own tells me the real emergency has just begun.