Chapter 31
This Is The Moment
Astrid Mathieson
I follow Sherlock down the narrow staircase, my blades drawn and ready. The lower level is bathed in dim emergency lighting. We move in perfect sync, clearing corners with practiced efficiency. Years of training have made us an effective unit, despite the complications between us.
"Clear left," I whisper, covering his six as he advances.
"Movement ahead," he signals, ducking behind a support column.
I slide into position across from him, using hand signals to indicate I'll provide cover while he moves forward. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows across the corridor, but the stillness ahead confirms what I already know. This level has been cleared.
My pulse quickens as I prepare to face the evidence of Fen’s team rescuing people and craft a believable reaction.
We round the final corner into the detention area and Sherlock freezes.
Bodies litter the floor. Enclave guards. Some clearly dead, others unconscious. No prisoners in sight. Cage doors hang open. Exactly as expected, but now comes the hard part—selling my surprise.
"What the hell happened here?" Sherlock’s weapon is trained on the nearest body as he approaches to check for signs of life.
I keep my expression neutral, though my heart hammers against my ribs.
Not from shock, but from the fear of discovery.
"Looks like the prisoners used the chaos upstairs as a distraction.
" I gesture to the bruised knuckles on one guard's hand, mentally thanking Fen for leaving such convenient evidence.
"Must've fought back when they heard the commotion. "
Sherlock's eyes narrow, that familiar analytical expression settling over his features. "Maybe. But where did they go?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with suspicion. I shrug, deliberately casual. "We need to find out."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods curtly and activates his comm. "Lower level secure. Multiple hostiles down, prisoners unaccounted for."
"Copy that," Ghost's voice crackles through our earpieces. "Incoming with backup."
I move methodically through the detention area, checking each cell with deliberate slowness.
Every minute I can stall is another minute Fen puts between himself and our team.
All empty, with no signs of where twenty plus captives could have disappeared to.
My stomach twists with anxiety. I have no idea how far they've gotten.
The plan was solid, but plans always look better on paper than in execution.
What if they're still on the premises? What if Fen lingered too long helping the weaker ones?
I drag my inspection out, running my fingers along cell bars, squatting to examine scuff marks on the floor—anything to buy them more time. But beneath my calculated delay tactics, a cold fear spreads through my chest. If Sherlock finds the back door before Fen clears the perimeter...
"This doesn't make sense," he says, examining one of the broken lock panels. Shit. "No way the prisoners could have just broken these, especially not during the short time we were engaged upstairs."
"Maybe they had help," I suggest, my voice carefully neutral while my mind races for plausible explanations. Keep him theorizing. Keep him here.
Sherlock looks up sharply. "That’s ridiculous, Blades."
"Or one of the prisoners wasn't as helpless as they appeared.
" I run my hand along the edge of a cell door, deliberately avoiding his gaze while mentally calculating how long it would take twenty escaped prisoners in various conditions to get out of this basement.
"Some magickal beings can pass as human until they need to. .. not be."
Footsteps echo down the corridor before he can respond. A welcome interruption. I exhale silently in relief. Ghost appears with Bravo Team, our extra backup on this mission. Their leader, a tall woman with a tight blonde braid—Agent Swift—gives me a respectful nod.
"Mathieson?"
"Guards down, prisoners gone," I report. "We're still searching for how they got out."
Ghost whistles softly as he surveys the scene. "Twenty prisoners don't just vanish."
"Unless they had help," Sherlock repeats my theory, but his eyes linger on me a fraction too long.
The calculation in his gaze makes my skin prickle. He's piecing something together. I need to redirect before he connects too many dots. Time for Agent Mathieson to take charge, just as I would in any mission.
"Spread out," I order, gesturing to the agents with the practiced efficiency that's kept me alive and undetected for years. "There has to be an exit somewhere. Check for hidden doors, maintenance access, anything that could serve as an escape route."
As the team disperses, I move toward the far corner of the detention area, where the shadows seem deepest. A strange feeling pulls me in that direction.
Intuition or something else, I'm not sure.
The concrete wall appears solid, unremarkable, but when I run my fingers along its surface, I detect the faintest seam.
I can’t play this out much longer and still be believed. Please be gone Fen. Please be fucking gone.
"Over here," I call, pressing against various points on the wall. "I think I found something."
Sherlock is at my side instantly, running a specialized light along the seam. The beam catches on a small depression that might be a hidden switch. He presses it, and a section of wall slides open with a pneumatic hiss.
A knot forms in the back of my throat.
"A back door," Ghost says, appearing behind us with his weapon drawn. "Clever."
Beyond the hidden exit lies a narrow tunnel, dimly lit by emergency lights embedded in the ceiling. It’s a stairway to the surface.
"Swift," I call to the tactical leader. "Secure the detention area. Ghost, with me and Sherlock."
The three of us move into the stairway, weapons ready. We climb to the top and Sherlock pushes the door open. We emerge into the stillness of the night.
I can’t swallow.
I can’t breathe.
A high concrete wall surrounds the compound, but a service gate stands partially open in the fence line about twenty yards away.
There’s no one in sight and the knot in my throat drops. They made it out.
"There's your escape route," Ghost says, pointing to the gate.
Sherlock immediately moves to examine the ground around the exit. "Footprints. Lots of them." He kneels, studying the soil. "Different sizes. Some barefoot."
My anxiety spikes as I scan the area beyond the gate. A narrow dirt road leads away from the complex, disappearing into dense woods. If Fen and the others left any obvious trail...
"They can't have gotten far on foot," Ghost says, squinting at the tree line. "No vehicle tracks near the gate."
I follow Sherlock's gaze to a large metal trough about thirty feet from the exit—the kind used for watering livestock. Water gleams in the moonlight, its surface like glass.
My chest tightens as I realize what I'm seeing. The damn trough was the escape route. "Strange place for a watering trough," I say casually, moving toward it. "No animals in sight."
Sherlock follows. "No tracks lead through the open gate."
"But plenty around the trough," Ghost points out, circling the metal container. "Almost like they gathered here.”
Sherlock shakes his head slowly. "Something's not right." His gaze meets mine. That penetrating stare that peels away layers. I've seen that look before, right before he unravels a lie. "Twenty prisoners don't just vanish into thin air."
"They didn't," I say, gesturing to the road. "They escaped. We should radio for drones to search the area."
As if on cue, our comms crackle to life.
"Mathieson, Chen, Prakash," Hayes' voice cuts through, sharp with authority. "Status report."
Perfect. Another complication. Hayes on comms means Hayes on site, and his paranoid scrutiny is the last thing I need right now. Between Sherlock's analytical stare and Hayes' ruthless suspicion, keeping my cover intact feels increasingly impossible.
"Lower level secure, sir," I respond immediately. "Guards neutralized, some prisoners escaped through a hidden exit. We've located their escape route, but no sign of their current location."
"Casualties?"
"Ten guards down, sir. At least four dead, the others are unconscious."
There's a pause on the other end. "Meet me at the front entrance. Immediately."
I mentally prepare for the inevitable face-to-face while standing in evidence of my treason. "Copy that. On our way." I nod to Ghost and Sherlock. "Hayes wants us at the front."
We turn away from the trough and begin walking along the perimeter of the compound, heading toward the main entrance. The air is crisp, a welcome relief after the stale atmosphere inside.
As we round the corner of the building, Sherlock falls into step beside me. "You don't seem particularly concerned about an extra twenty or so unaccounted for magickal hostages. We all saw the runes on those cages. They weren't holding humans down there."
I keep my pace steady, not taking the bait. "I am most concerned about rescuing the human hostages, not hunting escapees. We'll get them later."
"Still," he presses, "it's an unusual reaction."
"What would you prefer, Sherlock?" I snap, the words sharper than intended.
The dangerous edge in my voice isn't from impatience—it's pure self-preservation.
Each question he asks is another thread pulled from my carefully constructed facade.
If he keeps tugging, everything unravels.
"That I throw a tantrum because prisoners escaped during our rescue operation?
We completed our primary objective. The rest is cleanup. "
My heart hammers against my ribs as I hold his gaze. This is the dangerous game I've chosen. Every interaction is a minefield. Every question is potentially fatal. I won't just lose my badge, I’ll be executed publicly and painfully.
Ghost clears his throat from behind us. "Can we focus on the positive? Twenty-two humans freed, no casualties on our side. I'd call that a win."
I shoot him a grateful look as we continue along the perimeter wall, passing tactical vehicles and teams securing the compound.
It is a win. We saved people.
The facility's front entrance comes into view, illuminated by floodlights.
The scene is organized chaos. Medical personnel tending to freed hostages.
Tactical teams processing captured Enclave agents.
Forensic techs documenting everything. The aftermath always looks the same—clinical, procedural, a mess being methodically catalogued and then erased.
Hayes stands near the entrance, his broad frame silhouetted against the wall of the next building. His expression reads more pissed off than usual.
"Sir," I acknowledge him as I approach. "We've secured the complex. Twenty-two human hostages rescued, no casualties on our side."
Hayes doesn't acknowledge the success. His face is all cold fury, eyes like chips of ice as he surveys the chaos around us.
"What about this lower level that wasn’t on the plans?" Hayes demands.
"Cleared," I report. "Prisoners gone. We found a hidden exit at the rear of the complex. Looks like they escaped during the chaos."
"And you didn't pursue?" His question carries an edge.
"We attempted to track them, but the trail ends at the gate. Just footprints around an animal trough." I stand at parade rest, shoulders squared, giving my report. My hands remain steady as I indicate the direction of escape with a crisp gesture. "We need drones."
He sighs heavily, running a hand over his face. This momentary crack in his armor softens his features, revealing the exhaustion beneath his commanding presence.
"I've got additional teams coming in to help process this scene," he says finally. "They’ll have to hunt for them, but I need you elsewhere, effective immediately."
I blink, surprised by the sudden shift. "Sir?"
"The Chimeras." He leans in closer, jaw tightening until a muscle twitches beneath the skin. Each syllable emerges through clenched teeth. "They've been spotted again."
My heart stutters in my chest. "Where?"
His eyes meet mine, cold and determined. "Berlin, Germany."
"Berlin?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears, the word echoing in the sudden hollow space inside my chest. No. No. No.
"A whole outpost in the Black Forest." Hayes' expression hardens. "Slaughtered. A very good friend of mine was in command."
Ice floods my veins. "Wilson's team was stationed there." The words escape before I can stop them. Wilson had been my academy roommate for three years. We'd gone through hell week together, celebrated graduation side by side. "Are there any survivors?"
Hayes' silence is answer enough. I see the confirmation in his eyes before he speaks.
"When?" I manage to ask, my throat constricting around the word.
"Six hours ago. I have a plane waiting at the airport.
" Hayes steps closer, his voice dropping to ensure only I can hear him.
"I've authorized full tactical discretion, Mathieson.
No more red tape, no more bureaucratic bullshit.
" His eyes burn with something I've never seen before…
Not just anger, but a cold, calculated fury.
"You take those creatures down. I don't care how you do it. You're the best and I want them dead."
My chest tightens as Wilson’s face flashes through my mind. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. And now I finally have what I've always wanted—carte blanche to hunt the beast that killed my father.
"I'll bring them down, sir."
“We will,” Sherlock echoes from behind me.
As I walk with my team toward the waiting transport vehicle, my hand unconsciously presses against my chest where that inexplicable ache has become a constant companion. The beast that killed my father is within my grasp. I should feel nothing but determination, relief, even anticipation.
Instead, beneath the resolve, a single question pulses with each heartbeat…
What if everything I've believed my entire life is wrong?