49. Ellie
ELLIE
The light from the cutting torch is a bright, violent orange at the top of the steel shutter. It’s a countdown I can’t stop. I have maybe five minutes before the metal gives way, and Killian is already slipping away.
We’re huddled in the shadows of the alcove in the far corner of the kitchen, our backs against the cold slate of the built-in desk.
It’s the only shield we have left. On the desk surface above us, the dead monitors are strobe-lit by the orange sparks of the torch, their black screens dark and lifeless.
His breathing has changed. It’s no longer the rhythmic hiss-shuck.
It’s a wet, desperate rattle that tells me his lung has collapsed completely.
The pressure in his chest is pushing sideways, shoving his heart out of place.
If I don't equalize the pressure now, he won’t live long enough for them to break the door down.
My radio buzzes against my hip, a sudden burst of white noise shearing through the silence. Gabriel’s voice breaks through the haze.
"Ellie! Talk to me! Are you still there?"
"Killian's hit," I manage between sobs. "Chest wound. I've stopped the worst of the bleeding for now, but he's fading fast. He won't make it without a surgeon."
"Shit. We're pinned down out past the county line. Jackson's trying to push through the blockade. They’ve got the road corked with a couple of SUVs. It's going to be at least twenty minutes."
Twenty minutes. Killian doesn't have twenty minutes.
"The Order killed Julian," I tell him. "This wasn't an extraction. It... It's a cleanup. They're killing anyone who knows too much."
"Fuck!" he roars through the radio. "Is he stable enough to move? You can't stay on the ground floor, Ellie. There's a concealed hatch behind that workstation nook. It's a ramp straight to the basement. There's more supplies down there. Get him on the mat and slide him down. Now!"
I look at Killian's pale face. Moving him could dislodge clots or restart the major bleeding, but staying here means we both die when that torch finishes its work.
"I have to try," I decide. "I'm not letting him die on this floor."
I rip open the sealed trauma kit I found in the hidden cabinet under the desk.
I grab a paring knife from the mess of supplies on the slate, Killian's discarded notes and a half-empty mug, and a thick plastic straw from the desk drawer.
I don't have time to be clean. "This is going to hurt," I sob, the sound lost in the roar of the torch.
I find the second intercostal space and drive the blade in.
The sound is a sickening pop followed by a long, whistling hiss of trapped air escaping his chest. Killian’s back arches off the floor, his hand catching my wrist in a grip that nearly snaps the bone.
He can’t scream. He gasps, a raw, broken sound that tears through me.
I slide the straw in and seal it with duct tape. "I've got you, Killian. Breathe. Just breathe."
The drilling at the reinforced hallway door stops. Then voices, muffled by the steel but close enough to make my skin crawl, coordinating their final assault.
I reach back into the hidden cabinet and pull out a draw sheet. A heavy duty roll of reinforced plastic. It snaps flat as I kick it out beside him, the webbing handles thick and cold against my palms.
Sweat and tears sting my eyes, blurring the room into a haze of orange sparks and black shadows.
I lunge against him, my muscles screaming as I fight to bridge those last few inches.
Every movement is a battle. I finally heave him onto the mat, my fingers slick and trembling as I cinch the straps across his chest and thighs until they bite into the fabric of his shirt.
"I know you can hear me," I whisper, my breath hitching. "We're going to make it through this."
I slam my palm against the secondary scanner on the desk. The floor behind it opens, sliding back to reveal a steep, padded ramp that vanishes into the dark of the sub-level. It’s tight, only a few feet wide, but it’s a direct shot to the basement where there are more supplies.
I grab the heavy handles of the drag-sheet and lunge backward, guiding the head of the mat into the opening.
My heels skid in the pools of blood on the floor, my shoulders burning as I haul his dead weight through the dark.
I have to brace my feet against the wall to keep from losing my grip as he begins to slide. "Easy, Killian. Easy."
I follow him down, the heavy door slamming shut and locking above us.
A heartbeat later, the muffled thunder of boots and the harsh, barking shouts of the operatives who were just inches behind us echo through the floorboards.
They’re inside, and they’ve found nothing but their dead commander and the cooling blood on the tiles.
Jesus fucking Christ. I collapse onto my knees beside him, the concrete cold and unforgiving against my shins.
My lungs are burning, raw from the frantic, heavy haul, and the air down here is sterile and still, smelling of disinfectant and metal.
The sudden silence of the bunker is jarring after the roar and the noise upstairs. We made it.
The basement is a vault of everything Killian thought we’d need to survive the end of the world.
My eyes scan the rows of high-end gear, crates of surgical equipment and trauma supplies that shouldn't logically exist in a house. I can’t even comprehend how all of it came to be here, or how long he's been quietly stockpiling it.
I drag him to the center of the room, under the harsh, humming overheads, and start ripping into the crates stashed beneath the heavy steel tables.
I find a sealed thoracic kit and rip it open with my teeth, my hands shaking so hard the instruments rattle against the steel tabletop.
He's crashing. The straw I taped into his chest is whistling, but it’s not enough, the blood is starting to clog the opening.
I need a real drain in him before the pressure stops his heart entirely.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I prep the site. “Don’t you fucking dare leave me in this hole.”
The slide of the tube into his chest is a sickening, wet sound, followed by the immediate, life-giving hiss of air and a dark surge of blood into the drainage bag.
His back arches, a raw gasp breaking from his throat, and for a heartbeat, his eyes lock onto mine.
They're blown out, glassy, and full of a pain that almost stops my own heart.
Then they roll back into his head, and his body goes limp.
I find a vial of morphine in the kit and push a dose through the IV line I'd started while dragging him to the table. His face relaxes slightly, the deep, pained lines around his mouth smoothing out as the drug takes hold.
“Killian? Killian!” The scream is raw, tearing the back of my throat as I lunge for his neck, my bloody fingers fumbling for the pulse.
Nothing. For a heartbeat that feels like a lifetime, there is only the silence of the room and the cold, still, bloody skin beneath my hands.
Then—one beat. Thready. Thicker. And it comes again, weak, but it's there. I collapse over him, my forehead hitting his ashen chest as sob after sob breaks from my lungs. He’s alive.
I wipe the blood from around the tube, my hands finally steadying as the adrenaline starts to crash. But I can't get the silver-haired man out of my head. The way he looked at me before I shot him, like he knew something I didn't. Like he was amused by how little I actually knew about my own life.
Your father had another—
Another what? Another secret that was worth more than his own life?
Whatever secrets my father kept died with that man in the suit when I pulled that trigger tonight. And looking at Killian's blood-soaked form, I know with absolute certainty that I made the right choice.
I chose love over truth. Killian's life over my father's secrets.
The radio crackles to life, Jackson's voice cutting through the hiss.
"Ellie? Are you there? We're coming, we're almost there. Five minutes."
I key the microphone with blood-stained fingers. "We're in the basement, Jackson," I say, my voice breaking. "I've got him, but it’s bad. He needs a hospital. He needs it now."
"We're on it. Kai’s already talking to the hospital. You did good, Ellie. Just hang on."
I look down at Killian. His breathing is steadier now, his painkillers doing their job.
The steady beep of the monitor I've attached is the only thing keeping me upright. I traded my father’s secrets for Killian’s breath, and as I watch the green line pulse across the screen, I don't feel a shred of regret. I chose him over the truth, and I’d choose him every single time.
Above me, the muffled roar of heavy engines and the screech of tires on the gravel driveway vibrate through the basement walls. Jackson, Kai, and Gabriel are here.