Chapter 31
JOLIE
The restraint gives with a sound that’s more felt than heard, fibers snapping one by one under tension until the pressure finally breaks enough for me to wrench my hand free.
The sudden release throws my balance for a second, my shoulder jerking as blood rushes back into my fingers in a sharp, burning wave, and I grit my teeth through it instead of shaking it out right away.
“Yeah,” I mutter under my breath, dragging the rest of the binding loose and letting it fall to the ground. “That wasn’t gonna hold.”
The tunnel air presses in close around me. I roll my shoulders carefully, testing the range.
“You don’t get to leave me behind,” I murmur, more grounded now, less anger and more focus settling in where it needs to be. “Not like that, not again, and definitely not when we’re this close.”
I glance down the tunnel in the direction Hrask went, tracking the path in my head, mapping where he’ll be by now, how far ahead he’s gotten, and how quickly things can go wrong once he hits the interior layers of the base.
The thought presses sharp enough to cut through the lingering adrenaline, but I don’t follow it, not yet, because chasing him blind doesn’t fix anything.
“No,” I mutter, turning back the way we came. “You don’t fix this by reacting, you fix it by taking control.”
Dadams.
The name lands heavy and immediate, slotting into place like it’s been waiting there the whole time, and I move before I can second-guess it. My steps pick up speed through the tunnel, controlled but urgent.
The vertical shaft comes into view again, fractured light spilling down in thin, uneven lines, and I don’t slow as I reach it. My hands catch the edge, muscles tightening as I pull myself up, and the strain hits immediately, ribs locking hard enough to steal my breath halfway through the climb.
“Not now,” I hiss, forcing the motion through it as I hook an elbow over the edge and drag myself the rest of the way up.
I flatten against the surface as soon as I clear it, pressing into shadow as movement passes just a few meters away. Boots scrape across metal plating above, sharper and cleaner than anything in the tunnels, and voices carry in low, controlled tones that echo just enough to distort direction.
“…confirmation’s locked,” one of them says.
“Command override?” another asks.
“Direct. Both flagged. Orders are containment and retrieval.”
I angle my head slightly, catching the shift in their positions.
“Yeah,” I breathe under my breath. “You’re looking for us, and you’re not being subtle about it.”
The patrol line moves past, their formation tighter than it should be for standard rotation, and I wait until the gap opens before I move.
The transition from shadow to motion happens fast and clean, my body slipping across the exposed section of corridor and into the next pocket of cover before anyone turns their head.
“Still works,” I murmur, settling briefly behind a support column.
The air up here feels different—colder, sharper, processed—and it carries sound in a cleaner way that makes every movement riskier if I’m not careful.
I shift my weight slightly, tracking the next patrol pattern, then move again, angling deeper into the interior where the structure tightens and the security shifts from broad sweeps to controlled points.
Dadams won’t be out in the open.
Not with this level of lockdown.
I move through the corridor with deliberate precision, blending into the edges of movement where I can, breaking from it where I have to, my focus narrowing as I scan for anything that stands out against the pattern.
There.
Two guards outside a sealed door, their stance rigid, their attention fixed inward instead of outward, which tells me everything I need to know.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s him.”
I slow as I approach, adjusting my angle to come in from the side instead of straight on, keeping my profile low and my movement tight.
“…he’s not cleared to leave,” one of them says, his voice carrying just enough for me to catch it.
“Doesn’t matter,” the other replies. “Orders are—”
I don’t let him finish.
I close the distance in two steps, my hand snapping up to grab the first guard by the collar and yank him backward into me as my forearm drives across his throat.
His body jerks in immediate reaction, hands coming up too late to stop the pressure, and I hold it just long enough for the fight to drain out of him before lowering him to the ground instead of letting him drop.
The second guard turns, his eyes widening as he registers the movement.
“Hey—”
I’m already on him.
My elbow connects with his jaw, snapping his head sideways, and I follow through by driving him back into the wall, the impact knocking the rest of the warning out of him before it can carry.
“Don’t,” I say, pressing the weapon into his side as I pin him in place. “You make a sound, and I don’t miss.”
He freezes immediately, breath catching in his throat as he nods once.
“Good,” I mutter, reaching past him to trigger the door release.
The panel flashes, then slides open.
I shove him inside ahead of me.
Dadams stands in the center of the room, posture straight but not relaxed, his eyes snapping to me the second the door opens. The lighting in here is brighter, colder, reflecting off the smooth surfaces in a way that makes everything feel too exposed.
“Well,” he says slowly, his gaze flicking from me to the unconscious guard and back again. “That’s not how I expected this to go.”
“Yeah,” I reply, kicking the door shut behind me. “You’re adaptable. Let’s see how far that goes.”
He doesn’t move.
“Am I going somewhere?” he asks, his tone controlled but not calm.
I raise the weapon slightly, closing the distance between us without rushing it.
“You are,” I say. “And you’re going to start talking on the way.”
He studies me, his gaze lingering on the blood at my side, the way I’m standing like it doesn’t matter.
“You’re in worse shape than your entrance suggests,” he says.
“You’re in worse trouble than you think,” I shoot back, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the door.
He resists for half a second, testing the hold.
I tighten my grip.
He stops.
“Good choice,” I mutter, dragging him into the corridor.
I keep him close, positioning him just enough ahead of me to break line of sight without losing control, and we move fast, cutting through the corridor with a rhythm that matches the patrol gaps I tracked on the way in.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says quietly as we move.
“No,” I reply. “I’m correcting one.”
“You think pulling me into this changes anything?” he asks.
“I think you’re going to explain everything,” I counter, steering him into a shadowed section where the corridor dips slightly out of the main flow.
I shove him back against the wall, the impact controlled but firm enough to pin him there.
“Tury wasn’t a defector,” I say, my voice low and sharp.
Dadams exhales slowly, his gaze steady on mine.
“No,” he admits.
“He was flagged,” I continue. “Because he saw something he wasn’t supposed to.”
“Yes.”
My grip tightens.
“Say it,” I demand.
His posture shifts, tension flickering across his expression.
“He identified the breach patterns,” Dadams says. “The manipulated patrol routes, the controlled incursions. He realized they were being orchestrated.”
“By who?” I press.
He doesn’t look away.
“Driscoll,” he says.
The name lands hard enough to knock something loose in my chest, a cold weight settling in where certainty used to sit.
“You signed the report,” I say, my voice tightening. “You called it accidental.”
“I was told what it was going to be,” he replies, something sharper breaking through his control now. “You think I had the authority to override that?”
“You could’ve refused,” I fire back.
“And ended up the same way?” he shoots back. “You think this system allows dissent at that level?”
I stare at him, searching for the crack, the lie, something I can tear apart.
“You’re part of it,” I say.
“I’m contained by it,” he counters, his voice lower now. “There’s a difference.”
“Not from where I’m standing,” I reply.
He exhales, tension bleeding into his posture.
“The evidence system is real,” he says. “The archive, the manipulation logs, the cross-referenced patrol data—it all exists. That’s why it’s buried so deep.”
“Then you’re going to help me dig it out,” I say.
His expression tightens again.
“You’re not getting access without me,” he admits.
“Good,” I reply. “Then you’re coming with me.”
“To where?” he asks.
“To the center,” I answer. “Where they can’t pretend this doesn’t exist.”
He hesitates, something shifting behind his eyes as the reality of that settles in.
“That will trigger a response you won’t be able to control,” he says.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s kind of the point.”
I pull him off the wall again, forcing him forward.
“Walk,” I say.
He does.
And this time—
We’re not hiding anymore.