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The prisoners aren’t women.
They’re girls.
Thirteen, maybe fourteen years old.
The scream that shakes Simon’s earpiece punches through my shields to stab the last soft spot in my heart.
That first scream breaks the seal on their silence.
Suddenly dozens of girls are screaming, crying so hysterically that Simon rips off his headset with a yelp. The agents shush the girls’ cries, Elyse and the commander do their pheromonal gamma thing, but their abilities work better on solo targets. And when Dara rips open their cages, all it does is fuel their panic.
My heartbeat thwaps like chopper blades.
That’s the sound of the shit about to spray.
Simon grabs his mic. “Hostiles incoming.”
Gunshots patter in the green-tinged darkness, and a heavily armed guard squad falls into formation in the corridors around the cells.
“Send the B team!” Bridget shouts too loudly to pretend I didn’t hear.
Simon tosses me a phone. “Follow the signal.”
Shit on a show-tune-singing shingle.
I can’t sit on my thumbs while baby omegas are in danger.
Even if thumb-sitting is my favorite occupation.
I rocket from the van.
Simon parked us in a public garage. Rescue team of one, I sprint, only slowing to check the tracker app and steer toward the flashing dot that marks the dungeon.
I duck down a dodgy alley and find the auditorium’s back door. Then I’m racing darkness, passing open doors and hopping unconscious guards while my heart chugs with leaded gasoline.
Gunshots boom.
I pick up my pace.
When I hit the last area I saw on camera, I finally catch up with the guy the A-team left as rear guard.
The barrel of his gun swings to my forehead.
Pure gun-to-the-face reaction, I whip my scent to the max.
He goes down.
Shit.
I hop the body.
Maybe he won’t remember it was me?
When I reach the war zone, I check around the corner with my phone cam. The SAS agents keep cover behind doorways and the shimmer of Dara’s mental shield.
Returning fire, hostiles duck in and out of the open.
Easy pickings.
