Page 187 of Chalk Outline

I elbow the person who catches me, grab his junk, and squeeze it hard.

“Okay…” he says in a pitchy high voice.

“Mitch?”

He clears his voice as I let go of him.

“Yeah, I need a minute,” he says in a weak voice.

“Sorry.” I wrinkle my nose.

“It’s all good. I get it. The heat of the moment. You just saw a lot of dead people.”

“Where’s Braxton?”

“He found a map on his phone, and apparently, he has a hunch. I think he said something about a kitchen. I wasn’t the best listener when these lunatics tried to behead us.”

“Where’s the fifth gate?”

“Around the corner.”

“Are you ready to go?” I ensure with an apologetic tone and a small grin that he cannot see. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m good,” he replies in a soft, understanding tone. Searching his vest, he clicks something, and a light trail appears between us, revealing his wide grin and night vision goggles.

That was a rookie move, not taking one too.

He pulls the door open, and we sprint toward the gate. I press the key card against the tablet, and we enter the fifth section.

“Get down!” Mitch shouts, crouching down and firing as a group of prisoners lunges in our direction. Their unhinged faces freeze as bullets pierce their foreheads, and red trickles slowly.

I shoot the last one.

This place is not what I expected, far from it. I thought operators supervised them, but apparently no one does. They are forced to participate in these sick games. Some of the bodies on the floor look so young. I’m not even sure they are criminals at all.

Everything has been a game to James so far, and this is no different. This place could be just like what Reeve told me he saw when he went after Third Eye. If James can do that to a few hundred, with enough time and preparation, he can do that to...millions.

We run through a pool of water emerging from a black door, gradually flooding this shorter corridor.

“Fuck you and your sick morals. Want to hit me again? Go ahead.”

I startle as Reeve’s voice booms in my ear.

Shit.

“Reeve…”

A shaky breath escapes me.

He’s alive.

“I’m trying to put some sense into you, son,” says a second sneering voice.

Son?

“You were never my dad, and you never will be.” The fury in Reeve’s voice is palpable.

A roar draws my attention, and I shoot at a bearded man holding a knife. The psychotic glare in his eyes is the last thing I see before he plunges into the knee-high pool, splashing water onto my stained clothes.