44. Final confrontation?
We move fast, keeping low.
The rain muffles our footsteps, each drop a quiet drumbeat against concrete and metal.
He keeps his body angled between me and the checkpoint, one hand on my arm, guiding me through the darkness. We slip past the barrier just as the next guard rounds the corner, his boots splashing through puddles.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but he doesn't slow down, only his hand on my arm tightens slightly.For a moment, he's silent, then—
"Close your eyes."
"What?"
He pulls me closer, his hand firm but reassuring on my back.
"Close your eyes," he repeats, his voice steady and certain. "Trust me."
I close them.
My grip on his back tightens as I stumble, trying to find the rhythm.The way he moves, the steadiness of his breathing.
Voices echo somewhere—shouts, commands. I begin to open my eyes, but he notices. "Keep them closed," he whispers, his breath warm near my ear, and I do.
He guides me with such certainty I actually calm down.
When I open my eyes again, we're already three blocks into the city.
How he managed that, I'll never know.
He stops at an alley entrance, pulls out that strange device again. Checks something. Puts it away.
"We have sixteen minutes before the next security rotation."
He pulls me under his arm this time, my face and body pressed to his side.
Then he moves his other hand to cover my eyes and ears, protective.
"What are you do—"
BOOM.
The explosion rips through the air, a thunderous roar that rattles my bones.
The shockwave hits a second later, pressure pushing against my chest.
The ground trembles beneath my feet, and I can feel the heat even from here, a wall of warmth that rolls over us. I flinch hard, my whole body jerking, and he immediately pulls me tighter against him, his arm solid around me.
My breath catches, and I grab onto him, fingers digging into his jacket. I look up at him, searching for any trace of fear, but his jaw is set, his eyes already scanning the distance.
"What was that?"
"Don't worry. One of ours. That was just an empty building—no people inside."
His voice is calm against my ear, meant to soothe, his hand still covering my eyes.
"Wh—" But before I can ask more questions about the hows and whys and, again, how the hell they did that, he starts moving.
I can tell by the smell—acrid smoke, burning plastic—and the screaming around us that the building is burning.
It's chaos, but he doesn't let me move away from him to look, just keeps his pace steady.
At some point, his arm shifts away from my face, and I catch glimpses of people running from the CdC building to another one close by.
He leads me around to the north side, where the building backs onto a service alley.
"There." He points up. "Twelfth floor. That vent."
"You're sure you can make that?" I ask.
"Yes. Get on my back."
I do as he says andlock my arms around his shoulders.
"Love, you really need to remember how to breathe." There's a hint of gentleness in his voice.
Damn.
I forget that all the time.
The first leap takes us three floors up. I bite back a gasp and press my face into his shoulder. He doesn't pause, just finds his next grip and launches again. And again.
At twelve floors, he grabs the edge of the vent and pulls us up onto the narrow ledge.My legs turn to jelly the second he sets me down.
"Whatever you do, don't—"
I look down.
"—look down."
Oh fuck.
"You good?"
"You remember when I first ran to you and collapsed in front of you?"
"Yes. How could I forget that?"
"Okay, just to remind you—don't expect me to run away fast when you tell me to. I can't really feel my legs right now."
He laughs, a short sound that surprises me. He almost never laughs. I love that sound, I love h—
Wait. Concentration. Right. What am I thinking about.
"I saw you running up that whole mountain, determined to get there even though you were exhausted. You impressed me."
"You were scowling at me."
"I'm always scowling."
Well, that's true. He is always scowling.
"Follow my path," he whispers.
"Some of these vents won't hold your weight. Step where I step." His tone gentle but serious.
I follow the shape of him ahead of me, trying to match his movements.
He signals for me to wait, then carefully removes a grate in the ground before us. The opening is just wide enough for him to drop through. He lowers himself silently, hangs for a moment, then lets go.
I edge closer, watching as he lands behind a guard.
Before the man can turn, he's got him in a chokehold. The guard struggles, tries to call out, but the sound cuts off. In seconds, the man goes limp.
When the second guard spins around he reaches for his radio but a strike to the throat silences him.
He walks to the second body first, then the first, and drags both behind a maintenance unit, out of sight. Then he looks up at me and extends his arms.
I hesitate only a second. I sit down at the edge, my feet dangling in the air, feeling the cold metal against my palms.
He reaches up, his hands steady on my knees, then moves higher to my thighs.
"Let go. I've got you." His voice is certain, reassuring.
I push myself forward.
Then his hands catch me—one at my waist, fingers digging into the soft space below my ribs, the other sliding up my spine to steady me. He guides me down, my body dragging against his, until my feet finally touch the floor.
His grip tightens for just a second, like he's anchoring himself as much as me.
Without saying a word, he turns and takes my hand, pressing it flat against his back. My fingers curl into the fabric on their own, holding tight, and his hand squeezes mine once before releasing.
We start to move together. I try to match his steps, trying to follow him like a shadow.
"Slowly now," he murmurs.
At a service stairwell, he stops.
There are Footsteps above us.
He pushes me back against the wall, positions himself in front of me, shielding me.
"Sector Nine, we—"
He moves before they finish. The first guard drops his radio as his fist connects with the man's shoulder. The second reaches for his weapon, but he's already there, striking fast—elbow to the jaw, knee to the ribs.
The third guard gets a shot off. The sound is deafening in the enclosed space, echoing off concrete.
He spins, the bullet missing by inches, and closes the distance. He strikes hard—chest, then sweeps the guard's legs out from under him. The struggle lasts maybe ten seconds before the guard goes still.
He's up instantly, checking the other two, making sure they're down.
My ears are ringing from the gunshot. He turns to me, crossing the distance in quick strides.
"Are you okay?" His fingers gently touch my face, turning my head left and right, scanning for injury, his eyes concerned.
"Are you okay?"
"Are you?" I counter.
He nods shortly, then his expression softens just a fraction.
"We need to move. That shot's going to bring more." He takes my hand, giving it a brief squeeze.
We take the stairs up. Six flights. By the eighth floor, I hear it—voices calling out below us, boots on concrete, getting closer. My breathing is getting ragged, each step harder than the last.
"They're coming," I whisper.
"I know." He doesn't slow down, but his hand tightens around mine, steadying me, almost pulling me along. "Two more floors. You can do this."
At the tenth floor, the stairwell door bursts open. Four guards, weapons drawn.
"Take a step back," he says, his voice calm and steady.
I do. He moves.
The first guard goes down before I even see what happens. One moment he's charging, the next he's on the ground. The second and third blur together—I catch a flash of movement, a leg sweep maybe, bodies hitting the floor.
My breath comes in ragged gasps. I try to follow his movements but they blur together, too fast to track.
His body stays angled between me and every threat. Someone tries to grab me, the movement is too fast, wrist caught, twist, thrown, and the guard's sprawled three feet away.
I can barely process what I'm seeing. Then we hear it. A low, guttural growl that vibrates through the hallway.
Everything stops.
The guards freeze mid-movement, their weapons half-raised. Even the air seems to still.
No more guards come through the door. Instead, the ones still standing, maybe six or seven of them, slowly shift to the sides.
Behind them, in the doorway, stands a massive grey wolf.
My breath catches. The wolf is huge—easily the size of a small car, its shoulders broad and powerful. But it's the eyes that make my stomach drop. They're flat, lifeless.
Like glass.
And behind the wolf, a man emerges from the shadows.
Finally.Miller.
He's smaller than I remember. Older too. His grey hair is neatly combed, his suit pressed and clean despite the chaos around us. But it's his face that makes my whole body shiver—a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth, cold and satisfied.
I'm so focused on Miller that I don't notice the fear at first. It hits me sudden, flooding my whole body. My hands shake. My vision tunnels.
Then I realize, it's him.
The panic radiates from him, frantic and overwhelming. His emotions are jagged, raw, tearing through the connection between us.
"Stop fighting," Miller says. His voice is smooth, almost pleasant, as he walks toward us. He reaches out and pets the wolf's massive head.
The wolf doesn't react. Doesn't move. It just stands there, those glass eyes fixed on us.
He moves to stand in front of me, his whole body rigid. I step up beside him anyway. His arm shoots out immediately, stopping me—but he doesn't push me back behind him.
I glance at his outstretched arm. His hand is shaking. Barely, but it's there.
His breathing is shallow, uneven.
His eyes are locked on the wolf.
"Oh, Communicator." Miller's smile widens. "Didn't I tell you? Failure is not an option."
I can't speak at first. My throat is tight, my mind scrambling to understand what I'm seeing.
"He's quite protective of you, this wolf." Miller tilts his head, studying us with almost clinical interest.
Beside me, he growls. The sound is low, dangerous, vibrating through his chest.
I force myself to breathe. To think. To find my voice.
"He is," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. I reach for his outstretched hand, and his fingers immediately lace with mine, gripping tight.
I look at Miller. His expression shifts. Confusion flickers across his face, followed by something that might be shock. He taps one hand against his thigh, his cold composure cracking just slightly.
His eyes narrow. "You remember the policies, don't you? Any form of contact other than for the purpose of communication is strictly forbidden."
I hold his gaze, forcing myself to stay calm. To channel the anger burning in my chest into something focused.
"As you might have noticed," I say, my voice level and controlled, "your policies also include not killing innocent wolves to start a war."
The silence that follows is thick. Miller's smile fades into something colder.
"Well, I don't expect you to understand the intricacies of leading an organization such as this." His tone is dismissive, patronizing.
"If you mean blackmail, kill, and kidnap innocents," I reply, my voice sharp now, "then you're right. I don't understand."
Fuck him.
For a moment, I see it—the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. He opens his mouth to respond, but then his gaze drops to our joined hands. He looks at them for a long moment, then back at us. Slowly, he shakes his head.
"You know, in all my life, I have never seen this." He gestures vaguely at us. "A woman and a wolf, side by side."
Beside me, the Leader stiffens the second those words leave Miller's mouth.
He moves to step forward, but my hand tightens around his, anchoring him. I glance up at his face.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. When he finally speaks, his voice comes out shaky—different from anything I've ever heard from him. Vulnerable. Raw.
"Weird. When this is exactly how you stand in front of us."
Wait. What?
How does he know the wolf is female?
Miller's smile returns, slow and cruel. He looks at the wolf, then back at us, and something in his expression makes my blood run cold.
"Oh, you recognize her?" His voice is soft now, almost gentle. But there's nothing gentle about the satisfaction in his eyes. "I thought you would."
His hand crushes mine, and through the bond, I feel it—horror. Grief. Rage so intense it steals my breath.
"What did you do?" He growls.
He pets the wolf's head again, and my stomach turns. The wolf doesn't react. Doesn't even blink.
Miller's tone is casual, almost bored. "She serves her purpose now. That's all that's important."
"She's not a weapon," I choke out.
"She was always part of the plan," Miller interrupts, his voice suddenly sharp. Dangerous. "Just like you."
"Whatever you did to her, I will make sure everyone knows," I say, my voice cold and steady. "Everything you've built will fall apart."
Miller laughs. It's a cold sound, devoid of humor. "My dear Communicator, this—" he gestures at the wolf, "—is just the beginning. Imagine what I can accomplish with an entire pack under my command. With all of you serving the greater good."
"This isn't the greater good," I snap. "This is tyranny."
"Call it what you like." Miller's smile doesn't waver. "But you'll understand soon enough. After all, there's so much more to this story than you know."
His words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Whatever he's done, whatever he's planning, it goes deeper than I imagined. And looking at the wolf—at what's left of her—I realize we're only seeing the surface.
The real horror is still waiting.