Chapter 15 #2
Captain Holt raises his hand again, this time higher, with two fingers up. He looks around at his team to make sure everyone is in the right place, at the right time, and in the right alignment. The atmosphere shifts, and with it, a sense of expectation swells.
"On my mark." Everything gets smaller.
The noise recedes, leaving only the thrum of my pulse and the measured cadence of my breath, which I'm struggling to steady. All the work, the training, the gut feeling, the self-control, hangs on, though it's a fragile thing, teetering on the brink of something far more unpredictable.
I can feel Stellan's gaze on me, even though I'm not looking at him. Waiting. Taking measurements. I am ensuring that I remain in the correct position. Before the mark is given. Before anyone can stop me.
One step forward, then another, getting closer to the locked door. Every muscle in my body is tense with purpose, but the restraint is already starting to wear thin.
The steel is right in front of me now, close enough that I can see the small scars on its surface and the small flaws that show it has been used, over and over again, and that something is happening behind it.
My jaw gets tight. My attention narrows to one thing. “Open it," I say, my voice low and measured. There's no gentleness in it, nothing that would invite hesitation or discussion.
"Now."
Captain Holt doesn't protest or offer corrections.
Instead, he pivots, his hand slicing through the air to signal the breaching team to advance.
The change from holding back to action is so sudden that it feels like the air around us breaks.
There are many quick movements and then the blast rips through the hallway.
The reinforced door doesn't just open; it bends inward under the force, and the hinges break loose as the blast punches a hole through steel and silence.
The shockwave hits a split second later.
It hits my chest and shakes through my bones and muscles, sending heat, dust, and the bitter sting of explosives into the air.
I'm already on the move. I don't wait for clearance. I don't ask for permission. When the debris stops falling, I'm through the door. My boots hit the concrete hard enough that it shakes up through my legs, making me feel like I could break the structure below me if I hit it hard enough.
The team behind me rushes in, their voices cutting through the noise in a controlled, precise way that fits the rhythm of this kind of entry.
"Moving to the right side."
"Left clear."
"Contact down."
The words echo, bounce, and then fade away into the space behind me. I don't look back, nor do I track the motion, even though I sense it: my brothers, the Rangers, and the agents fanning out, securing the area as we move.
The only direction that matters is forward.
At first glance, the corridor looks sterile, with clean lines and neutral colors.
This kind of deliberate minimalism is meant to hide its purpose, but it doesn't hold up under close examination.
Not when you move through it quickly enough to see the details between breaths.
Someone is already forcing open the first door I pass. The second one, I take. It swings wide under my hand and hits the wall hard enough to bounce back a little. What waits inside is not right.
The room is mostly made of stainless steel, and every surface reflects coldness and clinicalness that makes it feel like no one cares. The floor slopes very slightly toward a grate drain in the middle, and the metal is dark in spots that have nothing to do with age.
There isn't a bed. There is no sign that anyone was ever supposed to stay here long-term, only temporarily, as if to conduct some kind of procedure.
I'm already moving again before I can see the whole thing, but it doesn't leave me.
It follows me, leaving a mark and building up with every door that opens after.
Because every one of the doors I open is worse. The next room is lined with thick, planned soundproofing panels that soak up the sound of our entry as soon as the door opens.
Another empty room awaits, its air too cold for comfort, deliberately preserved in that state.
Down the hall, metal arms reach out from next to a narrow table.
They are articulated, adjustable, and built with a level of precision that has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with restraint.
A sharp, violent sensation is coiling in my abdomen, and my stomach heaves as the unwelcome understanding begins to dawn. This isn't a commercial establishment. It's a system to process something… almost like cattle.
"What the hell is this place?" Soren's voice comes from somewhere behind me, and it's tighter than I've ever heard it. It's like he can't quite hold back the reaction.
"A lab," Leif says, quieter this time, but there is something in his voice that makes me uneasy. "But a lab that is meant for humans, although it is structured for animals."
Ivar's voice comes next, still clear and precise, listing and judging. "No compliance postings. No need for a license. There are no regulatory markers anywhere.”
Rurik kicks another door with his boot, and the lock breaks as it flies inward. "This place was built to make people disappear," he says, and the words hit hard.
To keep people hidden. To make use of them. The goal is to eliminate them. Claire. The idea hits like a blow. My chest hurts, and every breath I take feels like it's getting harder and faster, with something that feels dangerously close to panic if I let it go too far.
I say, "She's here," and it's not a guess or a hope; it's a certainty that has to be said. "I know she is."
And I begin to move faster. The hallway gets narrower and then wider again. At the far end, a door stands. It's locked, secured with a keypad, and noticeably heavier than the rest. Its design is also more deliberate, suggesting a higher level of security.
A concrete stairwell goes down into the darkness beyond it. The smell hits you as soon as it opens.
Disinfectant, sharp and chemical, layered over something metallic and slightly sweet that makes my throat feel tight.
And below it, a noise. The sound, a constant drone, vibrates. I stop. I know that sound… from her.
I hear myself say, "the pump," and the words are rough and dragged up from somewhere too tight to breathe well, recalling the quiet times, the nights, and the way her body would react before she even knew why. "It’s got to be Claire."
Now that I've named the hum, it seems louder, like it's pushing in, threading under my skin, and vibrating through my ribs in a way that feels too close and too familiar.
Bjorn's voice comes from right behind me, steady and grounding. "Calm down, brother."
But I don't have any easy things left in me. Not when it sounds like it's coming from inside my chest. Captain Holt stands next to Detective Ramirez, and both of them look down the stairs. Their expressions harden, a collective realization settling over them.
"A sub-level exists," Captain Holt declares, his tone sharp and commanding. "East end."
Detective Ramirez nods once, but more slowly. "The deeper it goes, the worse it gets."
I don't look at either of them. I don't need them to confirm. "I'm going," I say, already moving past them and onto the concrete stairs before anyone can suggest waiting, protocol, or anything else that would make me wait another second.
I hear them following me from behind. Concrete boots. Halfway down, the space gets smaller; the walls close in a little bit before opening up into a landing. That's where we hit it.
Big doors with extra support. Steel, in this case, is a robust, substantial material engineered to bear significant weight and withstand considerable pressure, rather than merely serving as a barrier.
Captain Holt's hand cuts through the air, and his team immediately moves, falling into formation with practiced ease.
I refuse to retreat, even as the accusations assemble with their usual speed. I move forward. It is close enough that the metal fills my vision. When I lift my hands and press them flat against it, the cold quickly seeps into my skin, biting and unnatural in its intensity.
I lean in so that my forehead almost touches the surface. My voice drops, losing its edge and control, until it becomes something quieter, something that comes straight from the center of me.
"Claire... baby..." The words get stuck, but I push them through. "I'm coming."
Stellan moves next to me, close enough for me to feel his heat even though my body is tense. "We'll get her," he says, calm and sure.
Rurik's palm rests briefly on my back, a solid presence. "Together."
The other men move quickly, and the count starts, felt through movement, timing, and the tightening of every muscle in the room.
Three. My heart beats so hard that it blurs the edges of my vision.
Two. The noise behind the door won't stop. It never ends.
One. The blast feels like a hammer.
The doors break open, the steel bending under the pressure as smoke and debris fly out into the stairwell.
The sound is deafening in the small space, and the pressure hits us in a wave of heat and dust, before the smoke even clears, before anyone can see clearly again, before anyone can call it, I'm done already.
Pushing my way through bent metal and broken frames, as if I could rip the rest of the world apart with my bare hands if that's what it takes to get to her…
As soon as I step over the threshold, still pushing through the smoke and the broken doorframe, something inside me changes. It's not gradual or with understanding that unfolds; it's all at once, like a truth too big to understand forces itself into place anyway.