Chapter 37
The bucket detonated with a wet, concussive crack.
It wasn’t quite an explosion, not quite a chemical rupture, but something messier and louder than it should have been in a space that small.
The air recoiled. The door shuddered violently in its frame, its metal at the base flaring outward in a warped curl.
Smoke hissed out in thick gray ribbons, sharp and acidic.
Laurel’s ears rang, her equilibrium listing sideways, but she didn’t wait for the world to steady.
She surged forward, grabbed the handle, and tore the door open. It resisted, metal warped just enough to fight her, but she forced it. The hallway beyond glowed sickly under flickering fluorescents. “Viv, behind me. Tim, follow her. Abigail, rear guard with your eyes open.”
She kept her tone controlled, clipped, and cold.
There was no time for comfort. No time for fear.
They fell into formation. No alarms blared, and there was no sound beyond their footsteps and the low hum of fluorescent lights.
Either the explosion hadn’t registered outside the storage room, or the entire lab had been built to hide noise.
Probably the latter.
Laurel led them fast down the corridor, past sealed labs and clean rooms, her boots echoing on the concrete. They climbed the stairs two at a time, reached the main vestibule, and ran outside into the rain.
Laurel turned to Abigail. “Go. I’m sure you can hotwire a car. Take Vexler’s Chevy and get help.” She nudged Viv toward the car and met Abigail’s gaze, making sure she had her sister’s full attention. “Keep them safe.”
“I’ll stay and help you,” Kohnex panted. Rain streaked the blood on his face.
“No. Go protect them,” Laurel said, pushing him off balance just enough to send him moving. “Get help.”
She pivoted and ran back inside, hustled to the emergency cabinet bolted into the corridor wall, and ripped the fire ax free from its brackets.
The metal protested with a sharp screech, as if warning her this was a one-way decision.
Her hand adjusted on the handle until the grip locked into her palm like it belonged there.
She couldn’t let them finish filling the canisters and possibly escape.
Running down the stairs, her boots struck the concrete in hard, purposeful strides. Hitting the bottom, she turned left and advanced down the hallway.
Her fingers tightened around the ax.
The door to the secondary lab hung slightly open. She didn’t stop to listen or wait for backup that wasn’t coming.
She stepped in.
Fitz stood inside near the center table, hunched over something.
The harsh ceiling lights cast jagged angles across his back and shoulders.
His hands worked quickly, fingers twitching over a small black box in front of him that appeared slick, mechanical, and humming with silent energy.
Not the canister. Wires ran from it to something on the counter behind him. A detonator? A secondary device?
“Hey,” she said.
He turned fast, just beginning to register the threat when she closed the distance.
She swung the ax handle and hit his skull with a blunt, sickening crack, just above the temple, careful not to cut him with the blade. His body dropped straight down, knees buckling, arms falling limp at his sides. He collapsed in a heap, his head smacking the floor once more on impact.
She didn’t watch him fall.
Didn’t check for breath.
Her eyes were already on the workspace.
The canister wasn’t there.
Her stomach tightened.
Damn it.
She turned, scanning every surface and clocked the metal table, the open drawers, and the black box blinking slowly on the bench.
Had he been preparing a bomb for the facility?
If so, he hadn’t had enough time to arm it.
Her thoughts sharpened again, pushing through the ringing in her ears, through the rising thrum of tension in her spine.
The canister was gone.
She pivoted fast, her boots sliding on the slick floor. Her vision blurred at the edges—adrenaline pushing blood too hard, her body catching up to what her mind already knew. The weapon was still close by, and Vexler had a gun. Gun usually beat ax.
The lab buzzed with the low hum of active equipment. Oscillating lights on the far wall blinked in no discernible pattern. She could feel her pulse pounding behind her eyes. Her grip on the ax tightened.
She forced her breathing to slow, but her heart wouldn’t cooperate as she sprinted back into the hallway, cutting right and toward what looked like offices.
She could hear typing. Her boots pounded down concrete.
Alarm klaxons started to whine behind the walls.
Fitz had triggered something before she dropped him. Great.
She slammed through the first door.
Vexler stood over a workstation, typing with one hand, the other holding a small, sleek silver canister. Viv’s name had been written on it in marker.
“Laurel,” he said, voice calm, his gun on the table. “You’re faster than I expected.”
Laurel lunged.
He turned and raised the canister like a weapon, but she drove into his chest with her shoulder. The canister clattered across the floor and rolled under the desk.
Vexler swung with his fist and connected with the side of her face. Pain lit up her temple. She didn’t stop fighting, going on pure adrenaline.
They went down hard. He scrambled for the desk chair, but she caught his ankle and yanked.
He kicked at her, but she was already on him.
She reached for the ax and used it again—swinging the blade this time, slicing it across his ribs.
Once. Twice. He stopped moving. Blood spread across his shirt in a dark, blooming smear.
Laurel stood, breath coming in broken shards, ribs aching from the hit she’d taken in the fight. Her whole body hummed with exhaustion, the kind that didn’t wait for rest. It clawed at the edges of consciousness, pulling her toward collapse. But she wasn’t done.
Not yet.
Where the hell was Bertra?
Laurel turned in a slow circle, the ax still clutched in her hand. She scanned the room and studied low counters, overturned metal chairs, and shattered screens. Vexler lay crumpled on the floor, blood seeping across the tile, face slack.
“Henry?” Bertra called from somewhere upstairs. “Hurry up. I’ll meet you in the van.”
Laurel bolted into the hallway and ran, holding the ax handle with two hands.
Every breath burned. Her legs carried her forward on instinct, not energy, up the stairwell toward the main exit.
She burst across the main room and slammed into the final door with her shoulder, stumbling out into the open.
The storm had broken.
The night was a chaos of wind and driving rain, and for a moment she was blinded as the rain and noise crashed into her at once.
Then—
Bertra.
She stood in the open, just outside the exit. Her jacket was halfzipped, and her hair was slicked back and plastered to her skull. She held a larger canister in her right hand, her arm extended toward Laurel with the calm steadiness of someone pointing a cigarette, not a weapon.
“This is not the test I wanted,” Bertra said. Her voice was quiet and almost casual with the storm muffling it. “I guess I’ll try again after you.” She shrugged, and her thumb twitched toward the release valve.
Laurel didn’t breathe.
Then the sky opened.
A mechanical roar split the air—heavy blades cutting through the storm, steady and close.
Wind pushed down from above, flattening the grass and pelting them with rain.
The helicopter came into view just above the tree line, searchlight piercing through the downpour.
The beam swept across the compound and locked onto them.
Laurel flinched from the brightness, raising her hand instinctively to block the light.
Bertra turned her head.
That’s when Laurel saw him.
Huck.
Half his body leaning out of the open door of the chopper, headset on, rifle braced against the edge. He didn’t shout. He didn’t give a warning.
Muzzle flash.
The shot cracked through the storm, sharp and final.
Bertra’s eyes widened a fraction as a hole appeared in the center of her forehead. The canister slipped from her hand, her mouth opening as if to speak. She dropped straight back, her body folding like someone had cut a string.
Laurel surged forward, slipping on the wet concrete. Her knee hit hard, but she didn’t stop. The canister bounced once, dangerously close to the edge of the stairwell.
She caught it midroll and tightened her hands around it.
The wind from the helicopter blasted against her skin. Laurel didn’t know if it was rain or tears on her face. Didn’t care. Her pulse thundered in her skull. Every muscle screamed, but she stood, gripping the canister.
The helicopter circled lower. Laurel saw Huck again, leaning out, scanning the ground, rifle still in hand. His gaze met hers. No words passed between them. He gave a small nod.
She was his reason.