Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Cooper
EXTRACTION
Eliza sleeps like it costs her everything.
Pressed tight to my uninjured side, breathing slow and even, cheek tucked against my chest like she trusts me to keep the world from caving in.
Maybe I do. Maybe that’s what’s been happening since the second I laid eyes on her—this slow, tectonic shift from detached protector to something else entirely.
Her body still carries the heat of what we did. I can feel the echo of it in the air between us. In the way her hand curls into the hem of my shirt like she won’t let go.
I don’t want her to.
God help me, I don’t want her to let go.
I used to think sex was best kept clean. Quick. Equal pleasure and no promises. No names. No numbers. Just relief, then silence.
But this?
This isn’t relief.
It’s a detonation.
And now I’m lying here with a woman tucked against my ribs, her scent all over my skin, her breath stirring against my chest—and I’m not restless. I’m not counting the minutes until I can slip out. I’m just here. And for the first time in years, that feels like enough.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. Not ever. I drift, but never fall. Constantly aware of the dark. The weight of silence. The feel of pressure shifting when someone enters a room. It’s what kept me alive in war zones and alleyways. What’s kept me breathing long after I probably shouldn’t be alive.
It’s that same instinct that jolts me now.
The air changes. A subtle tension. Like a held breath in the concrete bones of the tunnel. My body reacts before my brain finishes catching up. I’m already sitting up, gun in hand, heart picking up speed. A whisper of motion—too far to hear but close enough to know.
I lean over her. “Eliza.”
She stirs, lashes fluttering, eyes hazy. “What?”
“We’ve got to move. Now.”
The tone of my voice must hit home because she bolts upright, tension snapping through her limbs as she grabs her shoes. I toss her the go-bag.
“The drive. You got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. On your feet.”
I shoulder open the rusted exit door, pistol raised, and we slip back into the arteries of the city’s underbelly.
The tunnels yawn ahead, damp and echoing.
Stale air mixes with the stench of mold and sewage, heavy enough to taste.
Water drips from overhead. Pipes hiss. Rats skitter across our path, their claws a rapid, clicking percussion.
One darts too close and Eliza startles with a squeal—high, sharp, unmistakably human. My hand flies up instinctively, pressing firmly against her shoulder, urging her back against the tunnel wall.
“Shhh,” I hiss, cutting a look over my shoulder.
She clamps her mouth shut, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. But her breathing’s fast and shaky, and when I reach for her hand, she doesn’t hesitate. Fingers tighten around mine. I pull her close, tuck her behind me again, and keep moving.
The darkness stretches ahead—uneven concrete, rusted rebar, old signage half-obscured by time and graffiti. These tunnels were never meant for people, not really. Just maintenance crews and ghosts.
We move fast, boots slapping against wet concrete. I keep her tucked behind me, my good hand on her arm, guiding. We round a corner, and a man lunges out of the shadows like he’s been waiting for us.
Hunched. Twitching.
Filthy hoodie pulled tight over his head, the glint of a blade trembling in his hand. His eyes are wild, yellowed with fever or something worse, pupils blown wide. The stench hits before his voice does.
“Give me your bag!”
He’s strung out, desperate. I can see it in the way his hand shakes around the hilt of the blade, the way his whole body jitters like a live wire. This isn’t a mugging. It’s a last-ditch gamble for survival.
But I don’t hesitate. Can’t.
One step forward—my foot snaps low, fast, sweeping his legs from under him.
He hits the ground with a wet grunt. The knife clatters from his grip, skittering into the dark.
Before he can scramble for it, I’m on him—boot pressed to his chest, pinning him to the slick concrete, his breath wheezing through cracked lips.
“Don’t,” I warn, voice low and lethal. “Stay the fuck down.”
He nods frantically, coughing, palms up. I hold him there just long enough to make sure he’s not stupid enough to follow.
Then I kick him hard to the side. He crumples against the wall, groaning.
Not dead. Just out of the way.
I spin, grab Eliza’s hand. Her eyes are wide, her body stiff, but she moves when I pull. Around another corner. Down another dark tunnel. The walls close in tighter here. The ceiling is low. Pipes snake overhead like metal veins. The smell intensifies—something rotting in the far recesses.
She slips. A sharp cry. I catch her by the arm, wrench her upright.
White-hot agony tears through my shoulder like lightning laced with glass. The burn isn’t just pain. It’s a detonation of sensation. Blinding. Crippling. My knees nearly buckle. The bandage beneath my jacket goes hot and wet.
Fuck.
The wound is open again.
Blood surges down my arm, soaking through fabric that’s already stiff with dried sweat and old crimson. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw creaks, vision narrowing to a tunnel of pulsing red.
“Shit,” I bite out, barely managing to keep her upright as my legs scream to fold.
“You’re bleeding again,” she gasps, reaching for me.
“I’ll live,” I growl, but my voice is hoarse, thinner than I want. “Keep moving.”
She doesn’t argue. Just runs.
The tunnel opens into a broader artery beneath the city, where the dim flicker of dying fluorescent fixtures sputters overhead, casting sickly pools of light that barely touch the filth below.
A rusted barrel burning at the far end throws orange shadows against damp, mildew-stained concrete.
The acrid stink of smoke mingles with the ammonia burn of piss, the sour reek of sweat, rot, and days-old vomit.
The air is thick—wet with decay and city waste, a place where sunlight has never reached.
Boxes, blankets, tarps strung up with scavenged wire—makeshift shelters for the forgotten. Homeless people line the edges like ghosts in tattered layers, but this is no passive gauntlet—we’re running a razor’s edge through it.
One man stirs, eyes bleary and bloodshot, face streaked with soot.
Another, bundled beneath a shredded sleeping bag, rocks in place, muttering nonsense prayers to the flickering ceiling.
And then a third erupts from a nest of garbage bags, red-rimmed eyes sharp with fury, a broken bottle clenched in his hand like a weapon.
“Fuck you doing down here?”
“Move,” I growl.
He doesn’t. Not right away.
I shoulder into him hard, not slowing, not stopping.
My shoulder screams, more blood spills, dripping down my arm, but I grit my teeth and shove him aside.
He stumbles, crashes into a wall of milk crates, cursing.
Another man lunges out of a tent—filthy beard, wired eyes, arms outstretched like he’s going to stop us.
I twist at the last second, drive my elbow into his gut. He folds. Wheezing.
Eliza gasps. Someone grabs at her arm. I whirl—pistol raised, safety off. The shadow disappears back into the dark, muttering.
“Keep going.” I shove her ahead.
Around us, the camp rouses like a kicked hornet’s nest. People shout and curse, darting from makeshift shelters and tarp-covered beds.
A tent collapses beneath someone’s weight, spilling its contents and tangled limbs into the muck.
A bottle shatters underfoot, glinting fire-orange in the flickering glow of the barrel nearby.
Screams rip through the smoke-choked air. We’ve told every goddamn gunman chasing us exactly where to go. We’ve brought them down on our heels.
Behind us, booted feet hammer the concrete. They’re coming. Not just one or two now. More. Gaining ground with every breath. Every limp I can’t hide.
The tunnel narrows again ahead, sloping into another turn. Slick. Cramped. We plunge forward, the corridor pressing in, breath hot in our chests. My shoulder pulses like it’s being torn apart from the inside out.
And still, I run. Eliza stumbles, her breathing ragged, sharp. Fear vibrates off her skin like static.
Behind us, the sound we’ve been running from grows louder—booted feet stomping over the ground, the distant crash of metal, something kicked or knocked aside.
Close. Too close.
A shadow separates from the wall. Another druggie. Another broken life.
“Move,” I growl, my voice flint and fire.
But he doesn’t.
He’s in the way. And we don’t have time.
I twist, shoving Eliza behind me, and slam my shoulder into him, the wrong one. Agony rips through me like shrapnel. Wet heat spreads down my arm. The bandage is gone, torn loose. I bite down on the yell trying to claw its way up my throat.
But the bastard stumbles. That’s all I need.
I push Eliza past him, my hand gripping hers tight. Her breath comes fast, shallow—the high, whimpering edge of terror slipping through her clenched teeth.
Behind us, chaos erupts. The homeless camp boils to life with shouts, questions, curses—and footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Drawing closer.
They’re closing in fast.
Behind us, the sound we’ve been outrunning gets louder. Boots. At least three. Maybe more. The shuffle of movement. The clang of something metal knocked over.
We pick up speed, cutting through the camp. Shouts rise behind us.
“They went that way!”
“Hey! Who the hell—”
Gunfire cracks. A burst of panic erupts from the camp. Screams. People running.
We round another corner. My lungs burn. Every nerve is on fire. My shoulder pulses like a detonator. The tunnel opens wide here. Too wide.
I shove her into cover behind a crumbling concrete support. “They’re on us.”
“How many?”
I glance back. One. Two. Three shadows gaining ground. More behind them. My grip tightens around the pistol. “More than I’ve got bullets.”
Eliza’s eyes go wide. Her breath stutters, panic blooming on her face. I step out just enough to draw a clean line of sight and squeeze off the first shot.
Crack. The lead man drops.
Second shot—center mass. The next crumples sideways, gasping.
Third. Fourth. Fifth—each round precise, honed. The last man lurches forward before crashing into the filth, a wet grunt his only epitaph.
And then—I’m dry.
My thumb taps the empty slide reflexively. “Out.”
I turn toward Eliza, body tensed, ready to shield her with whatever I have left. Suddenly, gunfire shatters the darkness.
I grab her, press her hard to the tunnel wall, my body caging hers, expecting death from both directions.
But the shots land behind us.
Men scream. Footsteps scatter. Someone goes down hard.
Then—voices. Clear. Clipped. Commanding.
“Cerberus! Lower your weapon!”
I look up.
Tactical black. No insignia. No names. Helmets pulled low. Rifles braced high.
Guardians.
A rifle clatters through the air. I catch it one-handed, already pivoting.
“You’re late,” I say, panting, blood slick down my arm, breath catching on the edges of pain.
“Get to the extraction point.” The Guardian doesn’t blink. His voice is gravel and steel behind the visor. “We’ll hold the line. Get her to safety. We’ve got this.”
He slides past me, already firing, movements lethal and fluid. Another figure materializes beside him, covering our flank.
I nod once, grab Eliza’s hand, and pull her forward. And for the first time in days, it feels like we might actually make it out alive.