Rain pounded harder, a relentless curtain that blurred the edges of the chaos.
Morrison's head pounded in sync, blood hot on her skin, trickling from the wound above her eyebrow. Grayson's men moved with mechanical precision, dragging gas cans from the armored truck, their boots splashing in the mud as flames licked the edges of the riverside boathouse. The heat radiated through the storm, orange light rippling against the water's rising surface.
Through blurred vision, she watched them fan out—two staying close, the others circling back toward the tunnel's entrance. The sirens in the distance were louder now. Closer.
Almost time.
She gritted her teeth, fingers working against the splintered chair leg behind her back. The loose nail she'd felt digging into her palm was now bending under pressure. Pain flared as fibers of rope tore into her wrists, the sting was sharp and real.