The security is always clean and careless in council-approved places. They expect the name to do the work for them.
I cross the open stretch at a walk that doesn’t look like running, and I keep my body close to the wall so the cameras catch less of me if they catch anything at all.
I don’t touch the front gate because the gate is built to be watched, and I move along the wall until I reach the service side where the ground dips and the concrete has a maintenance ladder bolted into it.
I climb fast and controlled, I swing one leg over, and I drop into the grass on the inside without landing heavily.
Once I’m in, I stay low and move toward the back corner where the lights don’t reach. I see a camera above the rear door, and I can’t reach it from the ground, so I don’t waste time trying to be clever.
I take the long way around, behind the storage shed, and I find the small service entrance meant for staff and supplies. The lock isn’t special, and I open it without noise, then I close it behind me and keep my hand on the handle for a second because I want to feel if anyone tries it from the other side.
I cut power to the east wing at the exterior box so it reads like a minor fault, not an attack, because a boring problem is less likely to get called in. One section drops and the estate stays lit everywhere else.
I wait long enough for the guards to go check it. Then I pull up the camera feeds and go through them one by one, because guessing gets you killed. Perimeter first, then the gate, then the drive, then the corners. I don’t shut anything off. I freeze each feed on a clean frame and leave it running on a loop so anyone checking from a phone still thinks the world is normal.
When I step back out, I keep my pace steady, because rushing is what makes noise. I’m close enough to the first guard to take him before he can speak. The blade slides up under his jaw as I catch his weight and lower him before his body can hit the ground. The second turns at the wrong moment and reaches for his radio, but my hand is already there, breaking his grip and his breath in the same motion.
The third sees me just long enough to understand what’s happening. His mouth opens to shout. I shoot him through it and let him fall where he stands.
It gets worse fast.
Two guards come at me from the hall, fast and sure of themselves. The first never gets his weight under him. He’s down before the step finishes. The second keeps moving out of habit, not hope, until the round catches him square and knocks the breath out of his body for good. The corridor settles again, empty and silent.
I keep going and don’t stop to check signs or doors. I don’t need to. My body knows where this wing is. Left side. Always the same. This is where they put women they don’t trust yet. No windows, doors built heavy, padded to swallow sound, and cameras point inward, tracking faces, posture, and compliance. They’re not watching the hall because no one is supposed to come from there.
I pass closed doors, feel the pressure behind them without hearing a thing. This place is meant to keep people present and contained, not screaming. That’s the lie they sell themselves.
Then I hear a voice that doesn’t fit the rules here. I hear her before I see her.
Not screaming. Ana doesn’t scream. She’s arguing, cutting into someone who thought they had time to wear her down. She sounds like she’s still in charge, even with a locked door behind her. No begging. No pleading. Still Ana.
I breach the door.
She’s in the center of the room, feet planted like she refused the chair they offered her. Her wrists are bound, but her chin is lifted, eyes bright with the kind of anger that doesn’t ask permission. Two women in plain clothes stand a step back from her, frozen mid-sentence. Not guards. Handlers, the kind sent in to talk first, to soften the ground before anyone lays a hand on her.
Ana’s eyes snap to mine.
There’s no shock. No relief spilling over her face. Just recognition, immediate and steady, like she knew I’d come.
“Move,” I tell her.
She does. No hesitation. No questions.
One of the women lunges for the wall. I fire once and take her arm out of the motion. She goes down hard, crying into the carpet. The other backs away, hands up, breath shaking. I close the distance and put her out with the butt of the gun before she can find her voice.
Ana flinches at the sound, then sets her jaw and stays where she is.
“You hurt?” I ask, already cutting toward her.
“No,” she says. “They talked too much.”
Figures.
I slice through the restraints and pull her in, firm and close, tight enough to anchor her. Her breath is fast but steady against my chest, alive and unbroken. I pull her in harder, one arm around her back, the other braced at her neck, and for half a second I forget the room, the bodies, the exits. Her forehead comes to mine.
My voice stays steady because if it doesn’t, it won’t come out right.
“I’ve got you.”
