Chapter 33 Rylie
Rylie
The tunnels smelled worse than the room they’d kept me in.
Stagnant water. Rust. Something organic that had been rotting for a long time. The concrete walls closed in as I ran, pipes hissing overhead like the place itself was alive—and angry I was inside it.
Bare feet slapped against cold cement. I didn’t slow down.
Behind me, boots thundered. Too many. Shouting bounced off the walls, distorted and overlapping.
They were herding me.
I knew it the second I reached the junction.
Three tunnel mouths. One partially collapsed. One pitch dark. One lit by a flickering bulb that hummed like it was seconds from dying.
They wanted the light.
Because light meant control.
I took the dark.
I slid sideways into it just as a flashlight beam sliced through the air where I’d been. A shout followed—surprise, then anger.
Gunfire cracked behind me. Concrete exploded inches from my shoulder, spraying grit and dust. I screamed—not from pain, but from instinct—and forced my legs to move faster.
The tunnel narrowed.
Water pooled around my ankles, icy and slick. I nearly went down but caught myself on the wall, skin tearing from my palm.
I didn’t stop.
I counted turns. Left. Right. Slight incline.
Air shifted.
Fresh.
Hope flared—dangerous, bright.
Then I heard it.
A metal clang ahead.
A door slamming shut.
“No—” I gasped, skidding to a halt just as a heavy steel gate dropped from the ceiling with a violent crash.
Dead end.
My chest heaved as I spun around.
Three men emerged from the darkness behind me, guns raised, flashlights blinding. One of them smiled—slow, cruel.
“There you are,” he said. “You really should’ve stayed put.”
My heart slammed against my ribs, but my spine stayed straight.
I lifted my chin.
“You’re bleeding,” I said calmly, nodding at the man with the split lip.
His smile faltered.
That was all I needed.
I lunged—not toward them, but sideways—slamming my shoulder into a rusted pipe. It groaned, then snapped loose with a shriek of metal.
Water burst from the ceiling like a cannon.
The lights flickered.
The tunnel flooded in seconds, icy water rushing past our ankles, then calves. One man shouted as he lost his footing.
I didn’t wait to see more.
I dove.
Under the spray. Beneath the chaos.
My fingers closed around something cold and solid on the ground—a dropped flashlight. I hurled it hard down the tunnel past them.
It shattered.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Someone fired blindly.
I pressed myself flat against the wall, heart hammering so hard I thought it would give me away.
Footsteps slipped. Someone cursed. Panic crept into their voices now—high, frantic.
They weren’t in control anymore.
Neither was I.
But I had one thing they didn’t.
I wasn’t afraid of the dark.
I slid along the wall, moving inch by inch, breathing through my nose, forcing my pulse to slow.
Then—through the chaos—I heard it.
A different sound.
Not boots.
Not shouting.
A sharp, deliberate crack.
Followed by silence.
My breath caught.
Because I knew that sound.
I didn’t need to see him.
I felt him.
Trigger was here. Tears gathered in my eyes. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out loud.
The men who brought me to this place were about to learn exactly what that meant.