CHAPTER 14
DAMON
I stood over the twitching body of the guard on the concrete floor.
The heat from my shotgun barrel was still shimmering under the flickering emergency lights, the smell of burned hair and cordite mixing with the metallic tang of fresh blood.
I didn't wait for the fucker’s body to cool.
I reached over, wiping a thick splash of brain matter off my cheek with the back of my leather glove before turning to Margarita.
I grabbed her by the heavy canvas collar of her tactical vest and shoved her straight toward the heavy iron maintenance hatch.
The sound of mercenary boots was thundering down the concrete stairs behind us, echoing like a goddamn death knell through the sub-basement.
My ribs were screaming, a jagged white-hot ache tearing right through my liver where she’d dug a bullet out of me not that long ago, but my survival instinct had completely overridden the pain because dying right now wasn't on the fucking agenda.
She was staggering. Her pupils were blown wide from the blast, making her a massive liability I couldn't afford to babysit, but I refused to leave her behind.
She was too slow. I should have just tossed her over my shoulder and carried her, but I needed my hands free to kill anything that came around that corner.
"Move, Margarita. Now," I barked, shoving her shoulder again.
She flinched, her eyes darting down to the mess on the floor.
"Don't look at him. He’s done," I said, putting my body between her and the corpse. I hit the lever on the hatch. "Keep your head down if you want to keep it at all."
I pushed her through the opening and followed, slamming the steel hatch shut behind us.
The heavy iron bolt slid home with a brutal, final clank that instantly cut off the roar of the fire and the gunfire upstairs.
Darkness swallowed us whole. It was thick, freezing, and suffocating.
I leaned my forehead against the freezing metal of the door for exactly three seconds, forcing my breathing to level out, suppressing the sharp spike of claustrophobia crawling up my throat as the reality of being trapped in the city's concrete veins hit me.
Margarita was gasping for air right beside me in the pitch black.
I could hear her heart beating. It was way too loud.
Everything is too loud when you cut the lights.
I listened hard, picking up the rhythmic thwip-thwip of a distant exhaust fan, counting the seconds to calibrate my internal clock and ground myself in the dark.
"Stay quiet. Listen," I muttered, my voice dropping to a gravelly rasp.
She kept hyperventilating, the sharp sounds bouncing off the wet walls.
"Breathe through your nose, Margarita. Controlled," I ordered, reaching out in the dark until my hand found her shoulder. "Welcome to the basement."
My eyes slowly started to adjust to the absolute lack of light, picking up the faint, jagged glint of a rusted iron ladder leading straight down into the abyss.
I squeezed her shoulder, hard enough to ground her and send a clear message that panic wasn't an option right now.
I guided her toward the edge of the drop with economical, predatory shoves.
She froze at the lip of the shaft, completely paralyzed by the sheer drop into nothingness.
I didn't have the patience for her hesitation.
Every single second we wasted standing at the top of this hole was a second those mercs were spending upstairs figuring out how to cut through my hatch.
I ran my thumb over the hilt of my Ka-Bar combat knife on my chest rig, the serrated edge biting into the leather of my glove.
"Feet on the rungs. Don't look down," I said.
She didn't move.
"I'm right behind you. If you fall, I'll catch you," I said, the words coming out more like a threat than a promise. "Move, goddammit."
She finally grabbed the freezing iron and swung her legs over.
We started to descend. I stayed inches above her on the ladder, my body acting as a solid shield between her and the hatch above.
I kept one hand flat on the small of her back as we climbed down, the heat of my palm seeping straight through her jacket, physically forcing her to keep moving down into the damp, freezing dark.
The ladder was slick with a century of condensation, oil, and whatever the hell else leaked down here.
My side burned like someone had shoved a hot poker into the stitches.
The internal pressure of the climb was threatening to pop every suture she’d put in me.
Flakes of rust showered down onto my face as her boots scraped blindly against the rungs below me.
She was trembling so hard the entire ladder vibrated.
If she freezes on this ladder we're both dead. I can feel her spine right through the jacket. So fucking fragile. I could break her in half with one squeeze of my hand, yet I’m the only thing keeping her from plummeting to the concrete floor.
"One step at a time," I grunted.
Her boot slipped. She gasped, her hands locking tight on the iron.
"Keep your weight centered," I told her, pressing my chest into her back to stabilize her. "Almost there."
We hit the end of the ladder. I dropped the last five feet, landing in a deep crouch that sent a sickening jolt of pain straight through my liver, making me grit my teeth so hard my jaw popped.
I was back up in a fraction of a second, catching Margarita as she reached the bottom rung and yanking her into the shelter of a massive concrete pillar.
The tunnel stretched out before us like a narrow tube of gloom, stinking of stagnant water and old electricity.
The environment was a complete labyrinth of rotting infrastructure.
I knew the general layout from my old smuggling days, but the darkness down here had a funny way of shifting landmarks around.
I adjusted the strap of my tactical vest, tightening the nylon hard over my ribs to keep my gear from clanking against the wet concrete.
"Wait. Let your eyes finish adjusting," I told her.
She shivered, her teeth chattering faintly.
"Smell that? Ozone and rats. We’re in the maintenance veins now," I said, checking my sightlines. "Don't move until I tell you."
A distant, metallic screech echoed down the shaft from high above us.
The hatch was being forced open with pry bars.
I stiffened, my head tilting toward the sound.
I didn't reach for my gun. Firing a weapon in this echo chamber would bounce the report off the walls for miles and give away exactly where we were.
I drew the Ka-Bar instead. The matte black blade swallowed what little ambient light remained in the tunnel.
The hunters had breached the shaft. They had flashlights, tactical gear, and numbers on their side.
I had absolute silence and six inches of steel.
They were coming fast, feeling cocky because they assumed I was too injured to put up a fight.
Good. Cocky men make noise. I checked the angle of the blade in my hand, rotating it smoothly into a reverse grip for close-quarters work.
"They’re in," I whispered.
Margarita looked up at the shaft, her breath hitching.
"No more guns. We go quiet," I said, stepping closer to her. "If you see a light, you drop to the floor and stay there."
I grabbed her arm and shoved her roughly into a side-drainage pipe that was barely wide enough for a person to crawl through.
I went in right behind her, my broad shoulders scraping against the rough, weeping concrete of the walls.
Our bodies were pressed flush together in the cramped, freezing space, every single breath a shared commodity we couldn't afford to waste. The claustrophobia was a literal, physical weight pressing down on my skull. Margarita’s chest was heaving against mine, her panic so palpable it was practically vibrating through my tactical vest. I could feel her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird trying to break out of a cage.
Her messy hair brushed against my face, smelling faintly of the lavender soap she always used back at the clinic.
It was a jarringly domestic scent in the middle of this filthy hellhole, and it pissed me off because it reminded me of what I dragged her out of.
She’s going to bolt. I can feel the sheer tension locking up her muscles.
I need to anchor her before she does something stupid.
"In. Deep. Don't make a sound," I commanded, my lips brushing her ear.
She was shaking her head in the dark, overwhelmed.
"Press your face into my chest. Muffle your breathing," I ordered, wrapping an arm around the back of her head and forcing her face into the damp wool of my jacket. "Stay still."
We crept out of the pipe and emerged into a wider junction where three tunnels met in a pool of filthy water.
Suddenly, blinding beams of tactical LED lights cut straight through the dark, sweeping the wet brick walls about twenty yards away.
I grabbed Margarita by the waist and hauled her backward into a recessed alcove, my shoulders hitting the cold brick just as the beam of light passed inches from our position, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the dead air.
The mercenaries were using high-output gear and they weren't being subtle about it.
They were marching through the water like they owned the place.
I watched the dust in the light beam, perfectly timing the speed of their sweep.
Two scouts ahead of the main pack. If I take them out right here, the rest of the crew won't know which tunnel branch we took.
"Two of them. Maybe more," I murmured into her hair.
She gripped the front of my vest, her knuckles digging into my chest.
"Watch the light. When it moves, we move," I said. "Don't blink."