Chapter 30
HRASK
The tunnel doesn’t feel like a tunnel anymore once I cross the threshold into the base’s understructure.
Stone gives way to composite plating in uneven patches, the texture shifting under my boots from loose grit to something engineered, smooth but worn in places where movement has passed too often to hide it.
The air changes with it, losing that raw mineral dryness and picking up the sterile edge of filtration systems, sharp and faintly chemical, like it’s trying too hard to convince you everything here is clean.
“Yeah,” I mutter under my breath, keeping my voice low as I move along the maintenance corridor. “That’s a lie.”
“You’ve done this before,” I murmur to myself, more grounding than question. “So don’t screw it up now.”
The corridor narrows ahead, branching into two paths, one lit by low, steady strips along the floor, the other darker, less maintained, cables exposed along the wall where panels haven’t been sealed properly.
“Maintenance always gets lazy,” I say quietly, angling toward the darker path.
My hand brushes the wall as I move, fingers grazing over seams and access points, feeling for the subtle inconsistencies that mark places people use more often than they’re supposed to.
The surface is cooler here, the heat of the desert finally giving way to controlled climate, and the shift almost throws me for a second before I refocus.
“You’re not here to get comfortable,” I mutter. “You’re here to break something.”
The first checkpoint comes into view just ahead, not a full barricade like the outer grid, but enough to stop casual movement.
A sensor strip runs across the floor, faintly illuminated, tied into a panel mounted on the wall, and a single guard stands just beyond it, his posture relaxed but his attention sharper than it should be for a standard maintenance route.
“Of course,” I murmur, pressing back into the shadow of the corridor before he can glance this way. “Nothing’s ever simple.”
I watch him for a few seconds, tracking the rhythm of his movement, the way his weight shifts from one foot to the other, the way his gaze drifts and then snaps back to center.
“Not bored,” I note. “That’s a problem.”
I glance down at the sensor strip again, then back at the exposed wiring running along the wall behind me.
“Alright,” I whisper, crouching slightly as I move back just far enough to reach the panel.
My fingers work quickly, prying it open with controlled pressure, the casing giving just enough to expose the wiring beneath. The noise intensifies slightly here, the system feeding directly through this node, and I follow the lines until I find the right connection.
“Let’s make some noise somewhere else,” I mutter, pulling one wire free and bridging it with another.
The effect isn’t immediate.
Then—
A sharp crack echoes faintly through the structure, followed by a flicker in the overhead lighting.
The guard’s head snaps toward the sound.
“There we go,” I breathe.
He hesitates for half a second, then moves, stepping away from the checkpoint and toward the source of the disturbance.
“Yeah, go check that,” I whisper, already moving.
I slide forward, stepping over the sensor strip in the gap between its cycles, my timing aligning with the flicker in the system I just triggered. The panel doesn’t register the movement, too busy compensating for the disruption upstream, and I pass through clean.
“Still got it,” I mutter, not slowing as I move deeper into the corridor.
The layout shifts again, opening into a wider passage lined with sealed doors, each marked with identifiers that blur together as I scan past them.
“Data routing… storage… audit,” I murmur, my pace slowing just enough to read without stopping. “Come on, where are you hiding it…”
The throb grows stronger as I move inward, the systems here layered and dense, information cycling through channels I can’t see but can feel in the way the air vibrates.
“There,” I say quietly, spotting the door set slightly apart from the others, its panel more complex, its security deeper.
“Audit archive,” I murmur, stepping up to it.
The interface lights as I approach, scanning for credentials I don’t have.
“Yeah, we’re not doing this the polite way,” I say, pulling a small device from my belt and pressing it against the panel.
The interface flickers, resisting, then stutters as the device injects a loop into the system.
“Come on,” I mutter, watching the sequence run. “Just long enough…”
The lock clicks.
I push the door open and slip inside.
The room is colder.
Not dramatically, but enough to register after the heat outside, the air dry and controlled, the scent of electronics stronger here, sharp and sterile.
Rows of storage units line the walls, each one pulsing faintly with internal activity, and a central console sits at the far end, its interface already active.
“Jackpot,” I breathe, moving quickly toward it.
My fingers move across the surface, pulling up directories, scanning for anything that matches what we’ve been chasing.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Show me something real.”
The data loads fast, too fast, layers of information stacked over each other, and I start pulling files, anything tied to off-record operations, border anomalies, unauthorized movement logs.
“There you are,” I say, zeroing in on a cluster of flagged entries.
The patterns match.
Controlled breaches.
Scheduled gaps.
Manipulated patrol routes.
“They’ve been orchestrating it,” I whisper as I pull the data into the device.
The transfer begins.
Ten percent.
Twenty.
“Come on,” I mutter, glancing toward the door.
The electronic noise shifts.
Subtle.
But wrong.
“Damn it,” I breathe.
Thirty percent.
Forty.
A faint tone cuts through the room, barely audible, but enough to tell me something’s tripped.
“They know,” I say, my voice tightening.
Fifty percent.
The door panel flashes red.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Of course they do.”
Sixty.
The tone sharpens, louder now, more insistent, and I hear movement in the corridor outside, boots hitting the floor in controlled, rapid patterns.
“Come on,” I growl, gripping the edge of the console.
Seventy.
The door slams open.
“Freeze!” a voice barks.
I don’t.
I yank the device free at eighty-two percent, the transfer cutting abruptly as I pivot, firing before they can close distance.
The first shot drops the lead guard, the second forces the others back, buying me half a second of space.
“Not enough,” I mutter, moving.
More flood in behind them.
Too many.
Too fast.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “That’s not great.”
I fire again, adjusting angles, trying to break through, but they’re coordinated, disciplined, their movement tightening around me instead of scattering.
“Drop it!” one of them shouts.
“Not happening,” I shoot back, backing toward the far side of the room.
The exit’s already cut off.
They push in.
Closer.
“Alright,” I mutter, shifting my stance. “We’re doing this the hard way.”
I move to break through—
And something hits me from the side.
Hard.
The impact knocks the breath out of me, my shoulder slamming into the console as the weapon is torn from my grip.
“Down!” someone barks.
I swing anyway, driving an elbow back, catching someone in the chest, but it’s not enough.
Hands grab, force, overwhelm.
“Yeah,” I grunt, fighting against it. “That’s a lot of you.”
A strike lands across my ribs, sharp enough to disrupt my balance, and they take advantage immediately, driving me down, pinning my arms, locking me into the floor.
“Stay down!” a voice snaps.
“Not really my style,” I mutter, even as the pressure increases.
A boot presses into my back, forcing me flat.
“Subject secured,” someone says.
“Yeah,” I breathe, my voice rough against the floor. “For now.”
They haul me up, rough but controlled, binding my wrists behind me, tighter than what I used on Jolie, efficient and unforgiving.
“Identification confirmed,” another voice says. “Flagged operative.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Okay.”
They drag me out into the corrido, alarms threading through the air in controlled pulses.
“Command wants him processed immediately,” someone says.
“Of course they do,” I reply under my breath.
They push me forward, the corridor blurring slightly as they move fast, not giving me time to orient, not giving me time to plan—
Not yet.
“You picked a hell of a time to improvise,” I murmur to myself.
They force me into a holding chamber, the door sealing behind us with a heavy, final sound.
“On your knees,” one of them orders.
I don’t move.
A strike lands across my back, forcing the motion anyway.
“Yeah,” I grunt, settling into it. “We’re doing this now, huh.”
“Execution order’s already been issued,” another voice says.
I go still.
Not frozen.
Focused.
“Fast turnaround,” I mutter.
“Unauthorized infiltration, data breach, active resistance,” the first one lists. “You don’t get a trial.”
“Wouldn’t want one,” I reply.
They step back, positioning, preparing.
I roll my shoulders slightly, testing the restraint, feeling the tension, the give—
Not much.
But enough.
“Alright,” I murmur under my breath, my gaze lifting to meet theirs.
“Let’s see how this ends.”