Chapter 39
TROKA
Islither through the sewer shaft like a ghost—cold metal rails, slimy walls, water dripping, echoing.
My senses are raw: the stink of rot, the hiss of standing water, the distant rumble of HVAC systems—all telling me I’m close.
I pinch my nostrils when the stench turns to something like a mix of waste and chemical cleaner, my boots sliding in muck.
I punch through a maintenance grate into the mall’s back corridors. The lights flicker weakly—emergency backup hum, shadowed halls. I hear two guards ahead, voices muffled. I press close to the wall, muscles coiled.
They come into view: bulky, helmeted, walkie-talking.
One is shifting crates. I strike without hesitation.
I grab a mop handle leaning nearby—metal core concealed.
I twist it viciously into the first guard’s thigh; he screams, drops his rifle.
The second swings a baton. I jab under his arm, crack his ribs.
He doubles, gasping. I press forward: mop handle meets helmet. Bone shatters. He crumples.
Two down. I drop both rifles. I taste copper from a minor cut on my lip. Flashlight beams carve the darkness. I stalk forward.
A service corridor opens into the kitchen ducting area.
I catch movement behind stainless pots and steam pipes.
I kick a heavy cart – it slides into two guards in opposing standby.
They stumble. I roll forward, elbow into one’s face, knee into the other’s gut.
They collapse, groaning. I snatch a cleaning spray canister, twist the nozzle—foam blasts into a guard’s face.
He drops, clawing at eyes. I finish him with a broken chair leg.
I pause only to catch breath and wipe sweat off my brow. Steam hisses in vents—heat, grease, pressure. The pungent smell of food and burnt oil stabs my senses. Then I hear it—shouts from above, gunfire, cheering—echoes of chaos.
I burst through a service door behind an ice cream parlor.
Neon glows. Guards scattered. One is pouring toffee sauce.
I lunge behind him, arm around his throat, yank him over the counter, drop him headfirst into a vat of sticky toffee sauce.
He thrashes, chokes. I slam lids, muffling his screams. I yank myself free, boots glistening with sugar.
Another guard bolts, pulling a blaster. I snatch a deep-fryer basket off the wall. He fires—shot glances off metal. I swing the basket overhead, smash against his skull. Flesh meets metal. He topples into a fryer pit. Steam and oil hiss—burnt grease smell assaults my nostrils. He convulses, silent.
Through the fray, alarms wail. Red emergency strobes blink. I sprint, boots splashing through grease puddles, past cluttered tables and shattered glass. My heart hammers so loud it drowns out everything—hot, frantic.
I see stairs to the hostage hall. I dash up. Gunfire cracks behind me. I press upward, climb steps two at a time. A guard meets me at the top—rifle raised. I sidestep, grab his arm, toss him backward. He crashes into a table. He grunts, hits floor.
Then I step into the hall—my stomach drops.
Alaina stands in the center, Caelix strapped to her side.
She’s wrapped in the uniformed flanked crowd.
Her eyes widen when she sees me. The rifles trained on me now slacken fractionally.
The new leaders—Marrok unconscious behind them—step aside.
The hall is split by a corridor of stunned hostages and gang members tremoring between fear and loyalty.
My breath catches. Every muscle constricts. I half-run, half-stumble toward her.
“Alaina!” I roar, voice thick. Caelix stirs, his small face startled.
Her lips part, tears in her eyes. “Troka—” she whispers.
I close distance in steps so fast the world tilts. When I reach her, I drop to a knee, arms trembling. I brush her face—finger trailing sweat and dust—then press a palm over Caelix’s back protectively.
She doesn’t push me away. The crowd murmurs. Some lower guns. Some stand frozen. Some back as though unsure.
“Don’t hurt her,” I rasp to the others. “Don’t harm the child.”
Her eyes flick to me, confusion and relief. The threat in her gaze softens.
I see in her posture: she’s no longer pleading. She’s unyielding. Proud.
Then a voice cracks behind me: the scarred lieutenant from earlier. “He’s ours now,” he says, leveling a rifle. “He belongs to our cause.”
I turn, deranged energy coiling in me. “He doesn’t belong to your cause.” I push myself upright, glancing at her, at the crowd.
Her voice is firm: “He is ours.” She steps forward, placing a hand on my arm, steady. The guns wobble in the grips of gang members.
I swallow hard, chest tight. The adrenaline recedes, replaced by turmoil. Despair, fear, love. I look at Caelix in her arms—this child who might be mine—and I fight to believe she hasn’t been broken by this.
My heart flutters: I came for you. I didn't want this. But here we are.
For a moment, time stills. The hall hushes beneath the tension. Alaina meets my gaze. A flicker of a tear. Caelix’s fingers curl around her shirt.
Then the murmur rises, voices whispering, cheers building underground. Rifles lower further. The effect of the crowd shifting, allegiances fracturing, uncertain.
I grip her hand. Her skin is warm. I hold Caelix closer. The weight of what she’s done—leading them—cracks across my mind. But in this moment, her face, the child at her side, she is my rescue, my war.
I whisper, “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head. Her voice is raw: “No… but the hall is shifting.”
I nod. “We shift it back.”
She gives a sharp nod. Hands trembling, she looks at her new followers, then back to me. “We move forward.”
I glance at unconscious Marrok. The crown dropped. The war real.
In the echoing hall, with broken glass, blood spatter, guns pointing yet lowered, I hold her and Caelix like I’d hold my own life. And for once, I believe I may yet reclaim it.