Chapter Eighteen
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The door creaked open with a groan that scraped down Brenna’s spine. The interior of Timberline swallowed them whole, thick with shadows and stale heat.
Colt moved in beside her, silent and solid, and the door closed behind them with a soft click. The darkness pressed in like a weight.
She couldn’t see squat. Not the floor, not the walls, not the nightmare that lived in this place.
Her breath hitched. Just for a second.
The scent was the first trigger—old wood, rusted metal, something sour underneath it all. Then the sound of a pipe groaning above them brought another wave crashing in. She was back in the compound, crouched behind crates, heart about to blow through her ribs, Zachary bleeding out beside her.
No. Not now.
She clenched her fists and focused on Colt’s steady shape beside her. He pulled out the small flashlight, clamped it between his teeth, and clicked it on. The narrow beam carved a path through the dark. He kept it angled down, sweeping slow and careful.
She knew why.
IEDs.
The kind that didn’t care who you were.
Every step felt like a test. Her boot met the floor with a feather-light press, and still her heart pounded like a drumline in her chest.
A shot cracked from somewhere deep in the building. Sharp. Close.
She flinched. Colt froze.
A muffled shout followed, low and unintelligible.
Her comm crackled. “I’m in the back,” Harlan’s voice said. “Making my way toward you. Do we know who fired?”
Brenna whispered, “No.” Her voice barely scraped past her throat.
Colt’s jaw clenched around the flashlight. He moved again, methodical, steady. She followed, eyes locked on the floor, on his boots, on the light that showed every splinter, every nail head, every inch of risk.
Another groan from the walls. A scuff from somewhere to the left.
Her pulse jumped.
Colt raised a fist. They stopped. Waited.
The silence clawed at her. Her skin prickled. No footsteps. No voices. Then, another shot. Closer.
And this time, a scream. Cut short.
Brenna’s breath left her in a rush. She met Colt’s eyes in the narrow beam. No words. Just the look they’d both worn too many times.
Keep moving. Keep alive.
He shifted forward, and she followed. Every step louder than the last.
The beam of Colt’s flashlight swept ahead as they stepped through the warped doorway into a wide-open bay. The air shifted, heavier now, steeped in something old and wrong.
Brenna didn’t need to see to know what this room had been. She remembered the shape of it. The hollow sound of boots on the concrete. The way screams had once echoed off these walls.
Colt angled the light higher. And six figures emerged from the dark.
Brenna froze when she saw the hostages. Kneeling in a staggered line, backs to the wall. Hands tied behind them. Gags tight across their mouths.
The flashlight trembled for half a second in Colt’s mouth.
All of the hostages blinked against the light, squinting. One of them jerked his head, eyes wide. Another tried to rock forward. Muffled sounds rose from their throats, urgent and desperate.
Trying to speak. Maybe trying to warn.
Brenna stepped in, fast but quiet, her focus narrowing. The ropes holding the hostages weren’t just binding their wrists. Each one was tethered to the wall. Thick ropes looped through rusted metal rings bolted into the concrete.
Her stomach turned.
Those rings had been there before.
She’d seen them three years ago, when the CSIs marked them for evidence. The reports had confirmed what they’d suspected.
Restraints.
For torture.
She moved closer, knees bending to eye level. The nearest hostage, a woman with graying hair and blood on her temple, shook her head, eyes locked on Brenna’s. She thrashed against her bindings once, sharp and panicked.
Behind her, Colt stepped further into the bay, flashlight scanning the shadows. His body stayed between the hostages and the open door.
Brenna yanked the gag from the first woman’s mouth.
“Stay quiet,” she whispered.
Terror flashed in the woman’s eyes, but she gave a shaky nod.
Brenna pulled the knife from her belt and sliced through the rope at the woman’s wrists. She caught her as she sagged forward, then guided her gently to sit before moving on.
The next hostage trembled as Brenna reached for the gag. His breath came fast, uneven. She didn’t speak this time. Just met his eyes, pulled the gag down, then cut him loose.
Another shot cracked through the building, causing her to flinch. It had come from the far side. Not close. But not far enough.
Her heart twisted.
Beck. God, please don’t let him be dead. Please don’t let that shot mean he’s been executed.
She forced herself to move, jaw tight, vision blurring for a second before snapping back into focus.
Three more hostages. Then they’d figure a way out. If there was one.
She heard the footsteps echo down the hall. Sharp. Fast. And Brenna stiffened.
Her comm crackled. “It’s me,” Harlan said. “Approaching now.”
Colt didn’t shift his stance, didn’t speak. His focus stayed locked on the dark beyond the door, flashlight steady in one hand, weapon in the other.
Harlan slipped inside a few seconds later, low and quiet, his face tight.
“I’ll help,” he said.
Brenna gave a short nod and turned to the next hostage. She knelt, pulled the gag loose, and cut the ropes binding him to the wall. The man whimpered but stayed still.
Harlan moved beside her, working fast on the others.
The hostages looked dazed. Pale. Some were crying. One was praying under his breath.
Brenna checked their hands. Their eyes. Looked for anything off. One of them could be part of this. She had to be sure.
But no one had a weapon. No sudden movements. Just fear.
Real fear.
Another gunshot rang out. She flinched again, this time hard enough to make her knife hand jerk.
Harlan looked up, face grim. “Far east room. That’s where they found some of the first hostages.”
She nodded. “That’s probably where Gary is. Naomi. Beck, too.”
Her chest squeezed tight.
She pushed faster.
The last rope fell away.
Brenna’s fingers were slick with sweat. Her pulse thudded in her throat as she looked over the group, six freed but shaken figures crouched along the wall.
Harlan straightened beside her. “I’ll lead them out,” he said. “Try to get them to safety.”
Before she could answer, the comm crackled.
“Garrett and I just got here,” Cal’s voice came through, low and urgent.
Brenna’s breath hitched. Reinforcements.
Harlan responded fast. “Move in. We’ve got six hostages ready to go. I’ll need backup to get them out.”
Brenna crouched by the older woman with the head wound and helped her to her feet. The woman swayed but stayed upright.
Colt stepped back, still guarding the doorway. His face was stone.
Harlan moved down the line, lifting, steadying, whispering calm words that seemed to help.
Brenna tightened the grip on her knife and her fear. They couldn’t fall apart now.
She helped the next man up. He clung to her shoulder, legs shaking.
Gunfire echoed again, louder now, deeper in the building. She glanced toward the sound. Toward the east.
Probably where Beck was.
Time was running out.
The beam of Garrett’s helmet light cut through the dark as he stepped into the bay, rifle up, face grim beneath the gear. Cal followed close behind, checking corners with smooth, practiced sweeps.
Colt slipped his flashlight into his pocket and raised his weapon again.
“We’ve got them,” Garrett said, voice low. He moved to Harlan’s side without waiting for direction.
Cal nodded at Brenna, then went to the nearest hostage and looped an arm under her shoulders. “Let’s go. We’ve got you.”
The room shifted, full of movement and tension. Harlan, Garrett, and Cal began guiding the hostages toward the exit, steady and fast. Brenna helped the last one up, a younger man limping hard on his left leg.
Then a scream tore through the silence. A woman’s scream. Raw. Terrified. Footsteps followed. Fast. Heavy. Coming straight toward them.
Colt raised his rifle and aimed at the doorway. Brenna dropped to a crouch, knife still in one hand, heart pounding against her ribs.
The footsteps kept coming. No voice. No warning. Whoever was running wasn’t calling for help.
Colt didn’t lower his weapon. Not an inch.
A shadow burst through the doorway.
Colt held steady, finger tight on the trigger.
“Wait!” a voice gasped.
Naomi.
She stumbled into the room, breath ragged, arms twisted behind her back. Her eyes were wide, wild with panic.
“I escaped,” Naomi said, her voice breaking. She sounded like she could barely breathe. “I didn’t think I’d make it.”
Naomi sucked in some hard breaths, the panic rising in every part of her. “You have to go. Now. The place is rigged. Explosives. Everywhere.”
Brenna grabbed her, steadied her before she fell. “Where?”
“Every room. The east hall, the foundation, under the floor.”
Brenna’s grip tightened on Naomi’s arm. Her pulse thundered in her ears. They couldn’t trust this. Couldn’t trust her. But they had no choice.
Beck was still inside.
“How did you escape?” Brenna demanded.
Naomi opened her mouth, closed it and shook her head. “My rope slipped from the ring in the floor, so I stood up. I couldn’t get my hands free, I couldn’t untie them so I ran. I didn’t know what else to do. I left them behind,” she added in a mutter.
Behind. Which meant still in danger.
Brenna looked at Colt. His jaw was tight, and his eyes locked with hers.
“We’re finding Beck,” Colt said. He turned to Garrett. “Get the hostages out. Now.”
Garrett didn’t argue. “On it.”
Cal stepped up beside him, already moving. “Come on. Let’s go.”
The hostages followed, stumbling but moving fast, fear pushing them forward. Naomi hesitated, but Garrett grabbed her arm and pulled her into the group.
Harlan turned to Colt and Brenna. “I’m coming with you.” There was no hesitation in his voice. No room for debate.
Brenna checked her weapon, then fell in behind Colt. Harlan took the rear.
The hallway loomed ahead, shadows thick and shifting.
Another gunshot rang out. Muffled, but close.
They moved fast, toward the sound. Toward Beck. Toward whatever was waiting in the dark.
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