Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Kendall
Time seems to stretch endlessly. In the cramped confines of the windowless room, the air feels increasingly heavy as the wait drags on.
To burn off the restless anxiety clawing deep in my chest, I pace back and forth across the concrete floor until a dull ache sets into my feet.
Across the room, Branson sits slumped in the corner with his head propped against the wall, looking completely drained.
After we finally released the latches on the secured rooms knowing Jerome wasn’t going to come and check on us, he came straight to my quarters so we could wait it out together.
“Did you hear something?” he asks, his voice sounding thin and raspy.
Freezing in place, I hold my breath and strain to catch any noise filtering in from the outside. The silence around us is heavy, broken only by the steady rush of the wind whistling against the building’s metal siding. “No,” I reply, brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face. “Still nothing.”
“They aren’t coming for us, Kendall. We need to quit holding out for a miracle.”
I shoot him a sharp glare, absolutely refusing to entertain his defeatist attitude. “They are on their way. Booker gave me his word.”
A hollow, cynical laugh escapes Branson’s lips. “And what exactly is his promise worth right now? We’re stuck in this miserable hole while he’s out there playing soldier.”
“He isn't playing,” I snap back. The irritation flares hot in my stomach, but I force it down. Getting angry won’t change our situation. I walk over and sit on the floor beside him. “He knows where we are. They all know.”
“If they don’t get here soon,” Branson mutters, closing his eyes, “it won't matter. Jerome’s men will retaliate and we’ll be their first stop.”
I lean my head back against the wall. My pulse hammers in my throat. I want to believe he’s wrong. I have to believe they’re on their way like they promised they’d be. I grip my knees and listen for the sound of an engine or a door kicking open. Anything to break this silence.
“Jerome's known for not checking in frequently,” I remind him. “And the Kings will be here to get us before they realize something's wrong.”
Branson shifts, his eyes fixed on the door. “I hope you’re right.”
A low rumble vibrates through the floorboards. At first, I think it’s just the wind, but it grows too consistent, too thunderous, and too pulsing to be the weather. It’s the unmistakable roar of engines. My heart skips a beat, and I scramble to my feet.
“Do you hear that?” I ask, unable to hide the sudden spark of excitement in my voice.
Branson tilts his head, listening intently. “Yeah. It sounds like bikes.”
Before he even finishes the sentence, an abrupt crack echoes through the building. It's gunfire. My breath hitches, but then the staccato pop of more shots rings out, followed by the shouting of men outside. The chaos is music to my ears.
“They're here,” I whisper, a wave of relief crashing over me. “Booker’s here.”
Branson rushes up and onto his feet, his exhaustion replaced by a sudden surge of adrenaline. “They're actually doing it.” His hand reaches out for mine in solidarity. We’re in this together and the euphoria strumming through us unites us in a way we haven’t been before.
“I told you,” I say, pressing my free hand against the cold door. “I knew they wouldn't leave us here.” Even though the security system has been disabled, we’ve been stuck here because there are men outside with rifles and guns, we wouldn’t stand a chance going up against them.
The gunfire intensifies, a cacophony of sound that signals our salvation. Each blast feels like a step closer to our freedom. I look at Branson, and for the first time in weeks, I see a glimmer of genuine hope in his eyes. We’re finally getting out of here.
The chaos outside reaches a fevered pitch.
A dull thud echoes through the hallway, followed immediately by another as a body hits the floor with a sickening crunch.
Branson pulls me back, his grip tight on my hand.
He knows as well as I do that whoever is on the other side of that door isn’t going down without a fight.
Another scuffle erupts right against the wood.
We scramble backward, putting distance between us and the entrance just as a boot slams into the frame.
The lock we engaged from our side of it shatters under the force.
The door flies open, swinging wide on its hinges with a violent crack of splintering debris.
Booker stands there, his silhouette framed by the hallway light.
His chest heaves, and his knuckles are white as he grips his weapon.
He scans the room, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs.
The world seems to tilt on its axis. He isn’t just looking at me.
He’s seeing me. In that brief, charged moment, the distance between us vanishes.
He doesn't say a word, but the gritty look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.
“It's over,” he says, his voice rough and low. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he lowers his gun, stepping fully into the room. “You’re safe now. I told you I wouldn’t leave you here to rot.”
I yank my hand free from Branson’s grip and rush to him, flinging myself into his arms. “Kolter?” I ask, my tone breathy.
“He’s safe,” Booker murmurs into my hair, his hands coming up to hold my face. “He’s back at the extraction point. Splicer’s watching him for me."
I let out a ragged breath that turns into a sob. The sheer weight of the last few weeks lifts just enough for me to breathe again. “Is he okay? They didn't hurt him?”
Booker pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, his expression softening while he wipes a tear from my cheek. “He’s tough. He’s been through hell but he’s holding up. He kept asking if I was coming for you. I told him I wouldn’t stop until I had you in my arms.”
The overwhelming relief weakens my knees, and I lean into him for support. “Thank you,” I whisper, the words feeling small compared to everything he did.
“Don't thank me yet,” he says, taking my hand and guiding me toward the hallway. “We aren’t clear until we get you both out of here. Stay close in case we missed someone.”
We step into the hallway. The air tastes like iron and burnt dust. It’s too quiet out here, spookily so. Every flickering light makes the shadows dance, and my skin crawls. I keep my eyes glued to the dark corners, expecting trouble.
A silhouette peels away from a doorway ahead. It’s a man that was missed during their raid. He’s clutching a pistol with both hands, his translucent and trembling. He looks terrified. He lets out a guttural sound and fumbles with his safety, his eyes wide and unfocused.
My heart thrashes against my ribs. I want to scream, but no sound comes out.
Booker doesn’t hesitate. He moves like a blur of motion.
He lunges, closing the distance in a single stride, and slams his shoulder into the man’s chest. They go down hard.
The guard hits the wall with a sickening thud, and his weapon skitters across the concrete.
Booker pins him, his movements lethal and precise.
A short struggle follows, ending with the guard going limp.
Booker rises, his chest heaving. He looks back at us, his eyes hard and unyielding. “Keep moving,” he commands.
Branson pulls on my arm, dragging me toward the stairwell. I can't shake the tremor in my hands. The hallway feels like a tunnel that will never end, and every sound makes me jump.
“Are you alright?” Branson asks, his voice low.
I nod, though I can barely feel my feet. “Just keep going. Eventually my feet will catch up with the memo.”
We hurry down the stairs, but the fear between us hangs in the air. I know we aren’t clear yet. Every turn feels like a new threat, and the dark corners seem to watch us as we rush toward the exit.
We round the corner near the stairwell door, moving too fast to check our blind spots.
A figure lunges out from the shadows of the landing, blocking our path.
I let out a sharp cry and stumble back from the sight of the imposing man, my hand flying to my mouth.
Branson jerks me behind him, his arm raised like he’s ready to brawl.
Booker is faster, his weapon up and aimed at the figure’s chest in a split second.
“Whoa,” the figure says, holding his hands up. It’s me, Shade.” He grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Booker lowers his gun, though his shoulders remain tight. “You scared the hell out of us, Shade. Don’t do that again.”
Shade chuckles, stepping aside to reveal the path to the exit. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. I just wanted to make sure nobody else was lurking down here before you guys came through. The way is clear.”
I lean against the wall, trying to get my heart rate under control. “You have a weird sense of timing,” I mutter, catching my breath.
Shade just shrugs, his gaze flicking to the stairwell door. “Get moving. The bikes are right outside. We need to leave before the rest of Jerome's goons figure out where we are.”
“You heard him,” Booker says, nudging us forward. “Let's go.”
“It was a skeleton crew, I doubt there’s anyone left to take out,” Branson announces.
“We’ll burn the place to the ground to be on the safe side,” Slayer says, stepping up to us and joining us as we sprint toward the motorcycles. “Shade, got any dynamite in your saddlebags?”
Shade’s face twists into an ominous smirk as he replies to Slayer, “It’s like my credit card, veep. I never leave home without it.”
Branson’s entire body begins to rumble and vibrate with unrepentant chuckles. When I jab an elbow into Branson’s ribs to stop his laughing, he turns to me with a humorous grin and defends himself, stating, “What? Come on, that shit was funny.”
I dismiss his smirk with a shake of my head and match Booker’s stride toward his motorcycle.
Pausing briefly, he reviews the essential safety tips for riding passengers, warning me how to avoid the scorching heat of the exhaust pipes.
Assisting me onto the seat, he remarks, “Time to move before the fireworks begin. Knowing our luck, his saddlebags are packing a flamethrower too.”
I let out a snort because he’s got to be pulling my leg, right? But when I look at him, the expression on his face tells me he’s not, he’s serious. “Oh boy,” I whisper.