People say that walls can hear. Here, all the walls have eyes — hidden cameras, movement detectors, biometric locks. But what if the cracks are deeper than glass and steel? What if trust is broken, too?
I woke early, heart pounding to other bad dreams: a faceless gunman with cold metal against my temple, his menacing whisper, "You failed once. You won't again." I was awake with a jolt, my skin slick with sweat. No missing that message: It was scrawled four nights ago on to my mirror. Whoever is really behind this fortress is somebody who knows me and how to tick me off.
I jumped out of bed, weights heavy on my hips. My quarters were still. Even the low dull sound of the vent in Heath's office carried from far off. I needed answers. I punched up on the scanner in the wall, entered my clearance code and the door slid aside. There was no guard, no reception tone. A breach of protocol — a mistake or an invitation.
I made my way along the hall, emergency lights casting a faint green pall that led me toward the east wing. The server vault had been locked down following the intrusion last night, but I hadn't been headed that way—a floor plate I had noticed near the rear stairwell. I keyed my comm. "Nico, I'm headed to E-7. Can someone get me eyes on the pressure change?"
It was his calm, crackling voice. "Nothing irregular sighted. Corridor E–7 is clear. I'll keep you posted."
Good. Let nobody have been startled to hear that I was on my way.
I made it to the stairs and went down two flights. Downstairs, the hall ran out in antiseptic symmetry—doors every ten feet, shiny nameplates beneath lamps. I located the panel: one tile slightly off center, scuffs on the corners. My fingers worked the edge of the tile; it lifted easily, exposed a shallow compartment.
Inside, a computer chip and a piece of paper folded in half. I put the chip in my pocket and opened the paper up to find one word written in red ink: "Liar."
Another one of those echoes of that mirror message. But from whom? Rafe's mercurial instinct? Adrian's strategic mind? Nico's careful silence? Or some other specter from the deep?
I pushed the tile back, and scrambled down, heart pounding. The maintenance shaft gaped before me, leading down to the tunnels. Few of the guards came here; they called it "the bowels." Perfect for secrets.
I pried the hatch open and climbed down. The air was different, heavy with grease and old wire. Pipes snaked overhead. My flashlight beam bounced over graffiti — stenciled arrows, code words, rust stains. I headed in the direction of the arrows spray-painted "S-Block→" and found another solid steel door imprinted "S-Block Control."
I swiped my chip. The lock clicked. Monitors were along one wall inside, with cables hanging like vines. A workstation was still aglow: someone had been there lately. I tartly sat down in the seat and pounded keys.
The data chip I'd stashed away held a black site file: surveillance logs, an audio log with encrypted files, blueprints for the compound. I downloaded it and began scanning it. Desperate to stop, I grabbed at one of the file headings: "Operation Valkyrie," "Project Artemis," "Senator Devlin Briefing."
Valkyrie operation was to blame for me being ruined. Project Artemis — the covert op I'd believed was my old agency's. Both embedded in this fortress. They were not guards; they were benefiting from my death.
I tapped into the folder "Senator Devlin" and I clicked it open. There was a file: of photos of Devlin inviting Adrian into a secret bunker two months ago. Smiling. Shaking hands. Irrefutable collusion. Adrian had lied to me. He had said Devlin was a new client of his. The reality: they were friends far before I was in the picture.
My heart thudded in my ears. I swallowed. For the sake of Devlins interests. To train a squadron to defend corrupt politicians?
A siren went off—a mechanistic whine. The screens flickered. The hatch behind me shut. Lights flashed red.
" "Intruder detected," went the synthesized voice. "Security lockdown imminent."
What's more, I need relief because I'm physically tearing my hair out as I'm writing this, my hands are shaking, I yanked the flash drive out and stuffed it in my pocket. I shoved the hatch open with my feet and wriggled outside, pulling it closed after me. The corridor lights started to strobe; along the corridors, metal doors fell into place.
I sprinted up the stairs. Footsteps thundered behind me—slow, deliberate. I whirled at the top of the stairs, gun in hand. Out came an officer in riot gear, gun up.
"Halt!" he yelled.
I leveled my drawn pistol. "Stand down. I'm Elyra Hart."
He hesitated. "Authorized personnel only."
I indicated the aquamarine ID chip attached to my jacket. "I have clearance."
His jaw tightened. Bending down, he drew his pistol. I stopped; he was out of position. He was too tense, too coached. I fired.
The sound of the shot echoed. He jerked, let go of the gun, and fell on the deck with a thud. I listened as another guard was coming from the opposite end of the corridor. Back against the wall I straightened my legs of their own might and tiptoed silently past the dazed guard, the blood pumping coked life into my limbs.
I rushed into the control room — where senior editor Adrian called every play. The screens depicted the compound in lock down: Gates dropping, cameras swiveling to kill zones. Adrian was tense in front of the screens, fingers flashing across a holo console. He didn't recoil when he saw me.
"Elyra," he said, with no hint, one way or another, in his voice. "All right down there?"
I stuck my gun in his side. His breath hitched. "You set this trap for me.
His hand ascended, upturned. "No. You started the protocol."
I spat through clenched teeth. "I mean, you know why I was downstairs.
He nodded curtly. "I do."
My chest seared. "Why were you seeing Devlin?"
He walked away from the screens, a blank look on his face. "My empire needs clients."
"Devlin's not a client," I snapped. He's the one who is your comrade in Operation Valkyrie. He made me cover up for his criminality."
Adrian's eyelids flickered. "Devlin has enough on governments out there. He's an asset."
"A criminal," I whispered. "You protected him."
He leaned in, hand coming down to rest on my wrist. Agony burned as he caught me in a magnetic cuff—one that felt more powerful than any I'd ever experienced. "You're an unstable parameter," he said. "I can't have you be an open book.
I jerked my arm loose and shot the holo console. Sparks flew. Screens shattered. There was a bluish flash, lights went out.
Alarms wailed. The lockdown spread—doors sealing completely. We were trapped.
Adrian's eyes narrowed. "Elyra, go now."
I swallowed, my chest tight. "Not without the truth."
He gazed at me with swirling remorse. "You think you know the whole game. You don't."
"Then tell me."
He stepped closer, voice low. " My world is not black and white. Devlin pays us; we don't protect just clients. We are the people who prevent chaos from swallowing the city."
"By keeping traitors alive?" I spat.
He cupped my face in his hands, thumb brushing my cheek. "By any means necessary."
I tore myself out of the grip and ran for the door. There was a slam and it closed, the magnetic seal flashing. I pounded on the panel. "Open this door!"
No response. The red lights pulsed. Somewhere, a mechanism engaged.
He stood beside me, his voice a whisper. "Real war, you're not ready for it."
I laid my head against the cold metal. "I am."
The trap door to the ceiling opened. Downtime: ten seconds. There was a yawning ventilation duct above me.
I glanced at Adrian. "Cover me?"
His grip wavered just long enough that he hesitated for a heartbeat, and then drew his own sidearm. "Go."
I jumped and grabbed the edge of the duct. He shot the door controls — smoke and sparks. The bolt hissed again and popped open the door.
As Adrian's last words continued to echo: "Never trust anyone," I crawled into the duct.
I concaved inwards, the panel closing behind me. I was plunged into darkness.
I could hear my breath in the metal shaft. The compound beneath me groaned in lockdown mode, shut up tighter than a tomb.
I nibbled into the opening, my heart pounding. My pocket was throbbing with secrets as we drove.
Trust — or betrayal —had burned off another layer of this fortress.
Once again I was alone with one option: disappear and reveal at the same time, or remain hidden and fight.
I dragged myself along on all fours, digging into the blackness.