22. Evie
EVIE
The drainage channel ends beneath a rusted maintenance grate.
Above us, machinery hums through the concrete.
Fathom studies the building plans on his tablet.
“The command bunker is forty feet overhead.”
“What’s between us and it?” Rook asks.
“Four reinforced levels. Maintenance corridors, storage rooms, an armory, and the central operations floor.”
Falcon gives a low whistle. “That isn’t a bunker.”
“No,” Mac says. “It was designed to survive a war.”
The countdown reads five minutes, thirty-eight seconds.
Cobra examines the grate.
“I can open this.”
“Quietly?” Rook asks.
Cobra looks offended. “Occasionally.”
He removes two tools from his pack and releases the corroded locking mechanism without an explosion.
I’m almost disappointed.
Shark climbs through first and signals that the maintenance room is clear.
One by one, we enter.
The room smells like machine oil, damp concrete, and something older—the dust of a place built decades ago and intended to remain secret forever.
Fathom connects his tablet to a wall panel.
A three-dimensional map begins taking shape on the screen.
Corridors.
Elevators.
Storage rooms.
Emergency exits.
The bunker extends far deeper than the surface building suggests.
Fathom’s eyes widen.
“I’m reading more than a hundred heat signatures.”
Falcon checks his rifle. “That’s a lot of guards.”
“Wait.” Fathom enlarges the image. “Some aren’t moving.”
“Sleeping?” Cobra asks.
“Too hot and too uniform.”
Caleb leans over the screen. “Decoys.”
Fathom nods. “Heat panels behind the walls. They’re making the bunker look more heavily occupied than it is.”
“How many actual people?” Rook asks.
“Approximately forty. Maybe fifty.”
Mac looks grim. “Inner Guard.”
The name chills me.
“Who are they?”
“Operators recruited from intelligence and special operations. They protect the First Circle’s leadership.”
Caleb studies the map. “Forty trained guards are more dangerous than a hundred mercenaries.”
He looks at everyone once.
Then he looks at me again.
And again.
I catch him the fourth time.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
Falcon glances between us. “He’s looked at everyone else once. You’re at six.”
“Seven,” Shark corrects.
Caleb gives both men a cold look.
Cobra smiles. “Our sniper has it bad.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” Falcon says.
Rook lifts one hand. “Save it until we aren’t beneath a mountain full of armed men.”
I fold my arms. “What’s the plan?”
Caleb looks directly at me.
“You stay beside me.”
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
“I know.”
“I’m armed.”
“I know.”
“I’ve survived this long.”
“I know.”
I step closer. “Then why?”
His expression changes.
The frustration leaves his eyes, revealing something raw enough to stop me.
“Because I can survive getting shot.”
My heart tightens.
“But I don’t know if I can survive watching it happen to you.”
The maintenance room becomes silent.
Even the others stop smiling.
Caleb holds my gaze.
“I’ve buried too many people. I don’t intend to bury you.”
He believes every word.
This isn’t the protective reflex of a man assigned to keep a witness alive.
It’s personal.
Somewhere between the parking garage and this bunker, I became personal to Caleb McDougal.
I take his hand.
“I’ll stay beside you.”
Relief crosses his face.
Only for a second.
But I see it.
Of course I do.
“You’ve been carrying everyone by yourself,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
“You don’t have to carry me.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The countdown alarm sounds.
Four minutes, thirty seconds.
Fathom disconnects his tablet. “We need to move.”
Rook arranges us into formation.
He takes the lead. Caleb and I follow, with Shark and Falcon covering our flanks. Fathom remains near the center with Mac while Cobra protects the rear.
We enter the corridor.
The bunker lights come on one section at a time.
White fluorescent illumination stretches ahead of us.
Almost welcoming.
Mac stops.
“They turned on the lights.”
Fathom looks back. “Why does that bother you?”
“Because they never waste power.”
A red laser appears on Falcon’s chest.
Then one on Cobra.
A third settles between Caleb’s shoulders.
The fourth finds me.
“Down!” Caleb shouts.
Gunfire erupts from both ends of the corridor.