Chapter 43 | Anna
I was used to it being the two of us.
Now it was four—but for this, it was him and me.
The maintenance entrance was a steel door tucked between two loading bays, unmarked except for a keypad worn smooth by years of use. He keyed the code without looking, already listening, already counting.
The dynamic had shifted. And so had he.
Because the countdown had begun, and like it or not, we were stepping into a situation none of us could control.
Control, I’d learned a long time ago, was an illusion.
The door opened with a muted click, and we slipped inside.
“No unnecessary chances,” he said.
“Right,” I agreed.
“Anything feels off, you tell me.” Not a question.
I answered it like one, anyway. “Yes.”
He needed to hear it. And honestly, I needed to say it.
The back of his hand brushed mine, and for one brief second, I thought he’d take it, but he didn’t.
“We’re green,” Ulrich’s voice came through the comms.
The moment was gone.
Kincade stepped past me into the corridor.
The space beyond the door was dim and industrial. Concrete, exposed conduit, the faint hum of power running through the walls as the blueprints showed.
We moved fast and quiet. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
This was the part that was supposed to feel hard.
It didn’t.
Fluorescent lighting bounced off white-walls and bleached tile beneath our boots. The service elevator waited at the end of the hall. He punched the down button, and we stood there, the silence stretching too long.
I kept my breathing steady, but my heart was pounding. This facility sprawled larger than the others we’d hit and it felt like it. Too many variables.
The elevator ding was loud in the silence. The doors slid open. Slower than I expected.
We stepped inside. He hit sub-level two, and the doors slid closed.
My hand settled on the hilt of my knife as the elevator descended. The ride was short. Silent. My palm was slick with sweat against the knife hilt.
When the doors opened, I expected two guards.
There were none.
We exchanged a glance.
He drew his gun and stepped out first. I followed, blade in hand, staying one step behind him.
The hallway beyond was empty. Lights on. Cameras offline. No red indicator lights.
Someone wanted us here.
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall.
Two guards rounded the corner from a side corridor. Late, distracted, already relaxed in a way that made my spine go rigid.
One of them lifted his head.
And recognition slammed into me so hard it stole my breath.
It was him.
The guard from the hospital. The one who’d hit me three times and ruined my face. Hard enough that my vision went white, hard enough that my cheek had split and fractured the bone.
My fingers curled around the hilt of my knife.
The old pain flared—sharp, phantom-hot along my cheekbone—as if my body remembered before my mind could stop it.
I didn’t surge into the programming.
I chose.
Kincade felt it. I knew he did. Not the readiness—the why.
His gaze flicked to my face for half a second. To my cheek. To the place that never stopped aching.
Something in him locked down.
The guard’s gaze flicked to him, assessing. Then back to me. Confusion creased his brow.
“You—” he started.
Kincade didn’t hesitate as he went for the other guard. A suppressed flash. The soft impact of a body being caught and lowered.
The second one—the hospital guard—squared off with me, reaching for his gun.
I was on him before he finished the motion.
I drove him into the tile, forearm across his throat, felt the moment his breath stuttered. My knife slid free—not rushed, not shaking. Precise.
I leaned in close to the man beneath me, long enough for him to see my face clearly. To understand.
“Now, we’re even.”
The knife went in clean. Silent. Final.
I withdrew it as smoothly and stepped back before the cold pull inside me could ask for more.
Still in control. Still me.
Two dead guards. One—a reckoning.
“You should have let me have him,” he said—quiet, rueful. “I wanted to beat his face in.”
“Next time,” I said. “Besides, you picked the other guy.”
Still no alarms.
We continued down the corridor to the server room. Right where the blueprints said it would be.
Cold air blasted over me as I stepped into the room. Goosebumps rose on my arms. The smell of ozone and cooled electronics. Rows of racks hummed. And even though I knew this was what I wanted, my hands shook. I sheathed the knife, ready to get to work.
He stood at the door, watching the hallway, gun in hand.
I accessed the primary system and prepared to wipe the data. Fingers flying over the keyboard.
Green indicators flared to life. Ludwig’s thermite charges were armed and waiting. When we stepped inside, I exhaled.
One more step.
“I knew you’d come. Nice hair,” a voice said behind me.
Ice flooded my veins.
My head snapped up. Decker emerged from around one of the racks.
I started to reach for the knife at my waist, but he was faster.
He grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the rack. My head cracked against metal. Black stars exploded across my vision. The taste of copper flooded my mouth. His hand tightened, lifting me, pinning me there.
I couldn’t access the programming. Couldn’t focus through the choking, the panic, the black spots crowding my vision.
I caught movement behind Decker. Kincade, weapon raised.
Then one shot. Loud in the confines of the room.
Decker released me and stumbled back. I collapsed, gasping for air. The tile was ice against my palms. Each breath scraped like broken glass. My throat burned. Vision still spotted with black.
I pressed my palms flat on the cold tile floor and forced my head up. Decker stood against one of the racks, hand pressed to his left shoulder. Blood seeping through his fingers.
But he was still standing. Still capable.
Then Kincade was there, stepping between us, weapon still raised.
“Touch her again,” he said, voice flat and final, “and I kill you.”
I should’ve been annoyed at being shielded. I wasn’t. My head was still ringing and my vision kept blurring.
Kincade wrapped a hand around my upper arm and hauled me to my feet, pushing me behind him.
My legs shook. My throat felt crushed. I could feel it swelling already. But I stayed upright.
Decker’s gaze flicked to me, then back to Kincade.
“She’s made you weak,” Decker said softly.
“No,” he said. One word. Flat. Hard.
“You used to be sharper. Now—”
Decker’s words were cut off by the blaring alarm overhead.
“Fuck.” Kincade turned to me, gave me a shove out the door. “Ulrich, get us out of here.”
Four guards rushed down the hall. He fired twice, dropping two. I grabbed my knife and went for the third.
Decker lunged through the server room door and crashed into me. I slammed against the wall, dropping the knife. His hand wrapped around my hair, jerked my head back. Fury exploded through me, brushing open that cold place in my head—the one that housed the programming.
I elbowed him in the gut. Felt the air leave him in a rush. He grunted. Then I spun, used the heel of my hand to hit him in the nose. Blood spurted. His head snapped back.
Two precise shots. Decker went down, his kneecaps destroyed. His scream was immediate and raw.
Kincade reached for me, but I was still in attack mode. I knocked the gun from his hand and reached for his throat.
He caught my wrist, fingers digging into my flesh. his muscles taut as he forced me to stop.
“Anna, stop!”
His voice cut through to me. I blinked.
But that one second was all it took.
A gunshot and my shoulder exploded in pain. Hot. Burning. Like someone had shoved a poker through muscle and bone. I jerked sideways, nearly fell. He caught me, held me upright.
“Escape route is hot,” Ulrich said.
“No shit. Get us another route now,” he barked.
He was practically dragging me down the corridor now. And though I was back to myself, my feet didn’t want to cooperate. I stumbled, the pain in my arm sharp and biting. Blood ran warm down my sleeve, dripping from my fingertips.
More guards appeared behind us. Too many guards. Both of us weaponless.
Another shot cracked down the corridor.
Kincade grunted hard, the sound punched out of him. His face went sheet white. Sweat instantly beaded on his forehead.
His hand went to his abdomen—and came away slick.
“You’re—” I started.
“Keep moving,” he said, teeth clenched. “Don’t stop.”
Blood was already soaking through his shirt. Dark. Spreading fast. The smell of it sharp and metallic in the close air.
Too much. Too fast.
A figure dropped into the corridor from a side stairwell.
“On your left,” Ludwig said.
He fired without hesitation, covering our retreat, then hooked an arm under Kincade’s other side like he’d done this a hundred times.
I adjusted my grip, pain flaring in my shoulder, and forced my legs to keep up. My vision grayed at the edges, but I locked my jaw and pushed through it.
Every instinct screamed at me to stop and check him.
I didn’t.
I glanced back once.
More guards swarmed down the hall, stepping around Decker who lay grimacing on the floor, hands clutching ruined knees. Blood pooling around him in a dark halo.
Alive.
I hated that he was still breathing.
I hated more that we didn’t have time to finish it. We never triggered the charges.
“Primary exit is gone,” Ulrich said. “You’ve got ninety seconds before containment.”
“Change of plans,” Ludwig said. “This way.”
Ludwig cut left through a narrow service corridor, shoving open an unmarked fire door at the end.
Cold air slammed into us as we hit an exterior stairwell.
Bare concrete, metal rail slick with moisture, the city roaring somewhere below.
We took the steps two at a time, half-running, half-falling, boots skidding as Ludwig led us down toward street level.
No cover. No time. Just the night and whatever waited at the bottom.
By the time we burst out into the night air, Kincade was sagging hard between us.
His steps dragged.
His breathing wasn’t right.
“Get him in,” Ulrich snapped, throwing open the van doors.