CHAPTER 30

Julian's Final Message

The gunshot cracks through the stale air, a sharp whip of death. My instincts kick in before thought—muscle memory firing faster than logic.

Move.

I throw myself sideways, colliding with Riley as the bullet shreds through the air where I'd been standing. The metal table behind us takes the hit with a brutal clang, sparks flying as the round ricochets.

Riley lands hard against the floor, cursing. "Sniper—three o'clock, rooftop!"

I don't stop moving. Rolling to a crouch, I yank my sidearm free, scanning the bunker's shattered window. Too exposed. The sniper has a clean vantage point, and if they're trained, the next shot won't miss.

Riley's already on it. She slams her fingers against her tablet, hacking into the security feed. "Come on, come on—give me eyes!"

Another shot. The glass explodes above us. Shards rain down like jagged stars. I duck behind a rusted console, pulse hammering.

"How many?" I demand.

Riley's screen flashes. "One shooter, but—shit—more movement inbound. We've got company."

I grit my teeth. Julian's message, the truth about The Oath, the coordinates to Voss—none of it matters if we die here.

The sniper's repositioning. I hear the faint shift of weight on the rooftop, the recalibration of a high-caliber rifle. They're patient. Precise.

They know me.

I know them.

And that means I know how to even the odds.

I tap my earpiece. "Riley, EMP grenade. On my mark."

She's already ahead of me, pulling a compact charge from her belt. "Three-second detonation delay. Don't get caught in the pulse."

I exhale, centering myself.

Then I break cover.

The sniper fires the second I move—but I've already calculated the shot, already thrown my momentum into a controlled fall. The round screams past my shoulder, close enough that I feel the heat of friction.

Too slow.

I hit the ground, roll, and Riley lobs the EMP dead center at the bunker window. It sails in an arc, blinking blue—

Then it detonates.

A concussive pulse rips through the air, distorting signals, frying optics. The sniper's scope glitches out. A fraction of a second's hesitation—it's all I need.

I aim. Fire.

The shot finds home. A sharp cry of pain. The sniper tumbles back, their position compromised.

Riley doesn't hesitate. "Move!"

We sprint for the exit, but I already hear more footsteps closing in. Not just one or two. A full strike team.

The Oath isn't playing games anymore.

They want us buried.

---

We burst into the corridor just as the first wave of operatives swarms the bunker. They move like shadows, tactical and ruthless, automatic rifles up, visors glowing in the dim light.

Trained killers. My kind of people.

Too bad they're on the wrong side.

I slam into the first one, driving an elbow into his throat before he can raise his weapon. He chokes, staggers. I rip the rifle from his grip, twist it, use it as leverage to flip him into the wall with a sickening crack.

Riley's just as lethal. She ducks low, sweeps a guard's legs out, then plants a shock knife against his chest—50,000 volts of regret.

Another operative raises his gun. I don't give him the chance. My stolen rifle barks twice, and he drops.

"Exit's two levels up!" Riley shouts, already scanning the next hallway. "But they're locking the blast doors—we need to move, now!"

I hear the deep thunk of reinforced steel sliding into place. They're boxing us in.

Not today.

I yank a flashbang from my vest, thumb the pin, and hurl it down the corridor. Boom. A white-hot explosion of light and sound. The guards reel back, momentarily disoriented.

Riley doesn't hesitate. She hacks into a wall panel, bypassing the lockdown override. "Thirty seconds—cover me!"

I pivot, rifle up. Three more guards storm in.

One pulls the trigger—too slow. I duck, return fire. Headshot.

Another lunges at me, combat knife flashing. Bad choice. I sidestep, catch his wrist, twist until bone gives way. He screams as the blade drops. I catch it midair and drive it into his leg.

The third tries to retreat.

I shoot him in the back.

Riley slams her hand on the terminal. "Done!"

The lockdown releases.

"GO!"

We tear through the bunker's upper levels, sprinting past abandoned workstations and old security checkpoints. The building's coming alive, alarms blaring, red lights strobing. The whole place is about to become a war zone.

And then—

We hear it.

A new transmission crackles over the comms.

A voice I haven't heard in months.

"Nathan."

I freeze.

The world narrows to a single point of sound.

Julian.

"You don't have much time," he says. "They know you're coming."

The line cuts out.

I stand there, breath short, heart hammering.

Julian is dead.

He's dead.

So why does he sound so damn alive?

Riley stares at me. "What the hell was that?"

I don't answer. I can't.

Because for the first time since this mission began—

I have no idea who the real enemy is.

A new transmission intercepts their comms—Julian's voice: "Nathan, you don't have much time."