Chapter 25 - Zara #2
The corridor narrows until exposed pipes run along the ceiling, dripping steadily into shallow puddles that mirror the overhead lights in fractured pieces. My boots splash softly through the water as we move, each sound seeming far louder than it should. Somewhere behind us another door slams shut.
“Mikhail.”
He nods, gritting his teeth. His hand rises without looking back, signaling the two operatives following us to cover the rear approach. They separate immediately, rifles angled toward the intersection while the rest of us continue deeper into the compound.
The entire building feels strangely unfinished, as though whoever designed it cared only about function. Bare concrete, exposed wiring, reinforced corners.
Another intersection appears ahead, wider and brighter.
Mikhail slows, tilting his head almost imperceptibly.
“What?” I ask nervously.
“The lights.”
I follow his gaze to see half the corridor illuminated by harsh white fluorescents while the remaining stretch sits in shadow because three fixtures have gone dark.
Burned out?
Or...
“They've been shot,” I realize finally seeing the tiny fragments of broken glass glitter beneath the dead lights.
Mikhail's expression hardens.
“Keep moving.”
We cross the intersection together, every muscle inside me coiled tightly enough to ache. My attention shifts constantly between doors, ceiling vents, narrow service passages barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through.
In my peripheral vision, something moves. Someone disappears behind an open maintenance room before I fully register the shape.
“There!”
One of the operatives pivots immediately, advancing several careful steps before checking the room.
“Clear.”
Whoever I saw is already gone.
“I wasn't imagining it,” I grumble.
“I know you weren't.” His certainty steadies me.
Another metallic crash erupts somewhere farther down the corridor, purposeful, like equipment being loaded.
“They're evacuating.”
Mikhail nods once.
“Which means we're close.”
We increase our pace.
The building begins changing around us almost immediately.
Reinforced doors replace ordinary ones. Security cameras appear every few meters, several hanging uselessly after having been disabled in haste.
Fresh drag marks streak faintly across the concrete floor, disappearing beneath another heavy doorway.
My eyes remain fixed on them.
"Wheelchair.” When he glances at me inquisitively, I explain, pointing downward while we continue moving, “The pattern: those aren't crates. They're narrower. Two parallel lines.”
Mikhail studies them only briefly before understanding settles across his face.
“Hospital transport. They moved prisoners.”
That’s not comforting either.
The corridor bends sharply; beyond it lies another reinforced security door standing half open. One hinge hangs crooked.
The electronic lock sparks intermittently, filling the stale air with the bitter smell of burnt circuitry. Mikhail crouches beside the damaged panel.
“They forced it from this side.”
“They were leaving fast.”
He rises again.
“We're almost there.”
Hope is a dangerous thing. One moment it fits neatly inside your chest, the next it crowds every rational thought until breathing itself feels different.
My parents.
They are somewhere beyond these walls, close enough that every step feels heavier than the one before it. I feared never finding them but now, I fear finding them too late.
Another voice crackles across Mikhail's earpiece.
“Primary, report.”
“Northern interior,” he answers quietly.
“Hurry. Additional vehicles have entered the outer perimeter.”
My pulse jumps.
“They're coming back.”
“Trying to, for sure.”
He reaches for my hand without appearing to think about it, his fingers closing around mine for one brief heartbeat before releasing again as another corner approaches.
The gesture lasts barely a second but the silent message reaches me anyway.
We are still here, still moving, still together.
The final corridor stretches before us like the spine of the building, narrower than the others and lined with identical reinforced doors.
Every instinct inside me rises at once, recognition arriving before evidence does.
The air feels different here, heavier somehow, carrying the stale scent of recycled ventilation and too many years spent hiding things the outside world was never supposed to discover.
“Mikhail…”
“The north rooms.”
My breathing catches.
The end of the corridor waits less than thirty meters away, where one final steel door stands beneath a single overhead light that casts everything around it in a tired yellow glow.
Without needing to discuss it, we break into a run.
My feet carry me down the corridor before Mikhail has finished the entry scan, and his fingers wrap painfully around my bicep, stopping me before a door that turns out to be clear. Then we sprint off, the corridor shortening beneath our feet.
The door at the end is heavier than the others, reinforced. The lock doesn’t give at all no matter how many times I wrangle the knob.
“Stand back,” Mikhail growls, ramming his shoulder into the door. I wince each time he does it, and approximately nine shudders later, the door gives in, swinging inward.
And inside, illuminated by a single overhead fixture that turns everything it touches the color of an old photograph, is what makes my heart twist painfully in my chest, nearly knocking me down to my knees.