Page 42 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

Lily climbs out a second later, pistol raised, sweeping the area. She steps over the blood pooling on the asphalt without breaking stride.

"Clear." I gesture toward the concrete structure fifty yards away and take point. "That's the holding block."

We move cover to cover, using the blind spots between the floodlights. I don't need to check over my shoulder. She holds three feet behind me, covering our flank—I know it without looking.

The steel doors of the holding block are locked. A biometric scanner pulses red beside the frame.

I ignore the scanner, pull a breaching charge from my chest rig, mold the pliable explosive over the locking mechanism, and seat a remote detonator.

"Stack up." I point to the wall beside the door.

Lily presses her back against the concrete, muzzle angled toward the courtyard.

I step back and press the detonator.

The explosion rips the locking mechanism apart in a shower of sparks and shattered steel.

I kick the doors open and go in with the M4 up, scanning for targets.

The corridor is empty. The absence of resistance sets off every alarm in my head. A fortified holding block should have an interior guard detail. The security cameras are live, red LEDs tracking our movement, but the sightlines don't overlap. The angles are too clean. The cell doors hang unlocked, bolts retracted.

Too perfect. They want us at the end of this hallway.

We move down the corridor. I check the cells anyway, confirming the fatal irregularity.

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

The final cell block at the end of the corridor stands wide open. A single folding chair sits in the center of the concrete room, a bloody rag discarded on the floor beside it.

"Andrea." Lily breaks protocol, rushing into the room.

I follow her, rifle raised. The room is a dead end.

She isn't here.

Understanding lands a half-second too late.

The steel doors at the end of the corridor slam shut, locking with a resounding clang. The overhead fluorescents flicker and die, plunging the cell block into darkness.

A mechanized whirring echoes from the ceiling.

"Get down." I tackle Lily to the floor, wrapping my body around her.

Automatic weapons fire erupts from the darkness down the hall. High-caliber rounds chew through the concrete walls, tearing chunks of debris into the air. The noise is an endless roar.

This was never a holding block. It's a kill zone.

The Consortium knew who we were and where we were going. The amateur-hour GPS spoof Ivy cracked wasn't sloppiness. It was bait—coordinates dangled to pull us into a fortified concrete box and execute us.

I drag Lily behind the reinforced steel frame of the cell door, the only cover in the room. Concrete dust chokes the air, thick with the acrid smell of burnt powder.

"Stay put." I have to shout over the roar of gunfire.

"I can shoot." She pushes against my arm, raising her pistol toward the darkness.