Page 10

Faith

Gunfire rattles through the air outside, loud and unrelenting. My heart pounds with every shot.

What the hell is happening out there?

All I can think about is Dax, armed, in the middle of it, a perfect target. The guards wouldn’t hesitate to take him out. This could be a setup.

I tuck the knife into my waistband, the handle pressing hard against my hip as I move toward the door. My hand hovers over the knob, my breath catching in my throat.

I won’t just sit here while those monsters execute inmates.

My fingers touch the cool metal, and something slams into the door so hard it rattles the frame.

“Dax?” I ask, my voice small and tentative.

Another slam. The wood groans under the impact.

Then I hear it, a growl, low and guttural.

I freeze, my stomach twisting.

Maybe this wasn’t a setup. Could Quince have been serious? Feral inmates?

Another slam, harder this time, and the whole door shudders violently.

I step back, my pulse racing as I yank the knife free. My fingers tighten around the handle, slick with sweat.

The pounding grows more frantic, shaking the frame with each hit. The door isn’t going to hold.

I scan the room, my eyes darting over the small space. No windows. No other exit. My gaze snaps upward. A vent.

I’m light enough.

But the door groans again, the hinges creaking under the strain, and I know I need to buy time.

I grab the table, throwing my weight against it as I drag it across the floor. It screeches loudly in the confined space, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, but I keep pulling. My muscles burn as I wedge it against the door, pressing it into place.

The pounding doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets harder. Louder. Each blow sends a jolt through my chest, vibrating in my bones.

The vent. I need to move.

I shove the bed across the room, the legs scraping against the floor, leaving deep gouges in the cheap linoleum. The table rattles behind me as the thing outside slams into the door again and again.

I clamber onto the bed, my movements jerky and rushed, and pull the knife free again. My hands shake as I work at the screws on the vent cover. They’re tight, and my fingers slip against the slick metal. Another pound on the door.

The wood splinters.

I bite back a curse, my breath coming faster as I twist the last screw free. The vent cover drops to the bed with a dull clatter.

I grab the edges of the vent, testing it with a pull-up. My arms tremble with the effort, and my grip slips slightly. I’m Not strong enough to pull myself up completely.

“Shit,” I hiss.

The door gives a loud crack, splitting down the center.

I jump off the bed, grabbing the chair and hauling it onto the mattress.

This is insane.

The chair wobbles under me as I climb up, the legs sinking unevenly into the soft mattress.

My balance shifts dangerously, but I don’t have time to adjust. I stretch, gripping the edges of the vent, and haul myself up with every ounce of strength I have left.

My arms burn, screaming in protest as I wiggle backward into the tight space.

The vent creaks under my weight, the thin metal groaning as I inch farther inside.

Then the door splinters completely, a loud crash splitting the air.

I freeze, peering down through the opening.

The top half of a man leans into the room, his body jerking and twitching as he claws his way through the broken frame.

My stomach drops. He’s snarling, blood and drool foaming from his mouth, his lips pulled back over jagged teeth. His skin is pale and waxy, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

What the hell is he on?

I swallow hard, watching in horror as he drags himself farther into the room, his hands scrabbling against the bedframe.

“Stop!” I shout, my voice breaking. My therapist training kicks in, even though every instinct screams that this isn’t a man I can reason with. “You don’t have to do this!”

The thing jerks its head up, its wild eyes locking on me. For a moment, it seems to hesitate, its bloody fingers curling around the mattress.

“Stop,” I say again, my voice softer this time. “Just stop.”

But it doesn’t stop. It snarls, lunging for the bed with unnatural strength, its hands slamming against the vent opening.

I let out a cry, scrambling back as fast as I can. The tight space presses in around me, the edges of the vent cutting into my arms and legs as I shove myself farther inside.

The vent creaks again, louder this time, and I glance back, panic clawing at my chest.

He’s still there, clawing at the opening, his bloodied hands reaching for me.

I crawl faster, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Keep moving. Don’t stop. Just keep moving.

Every inch I manage to move forward, my anger burns hotter.

This has to be linked to the program. Whatever they’re testing on these men, this is the result. How could anyone think this was acceptable? My jaw tightens as I crawl, the confined space amplifying the sound of my breathing.

The vent vibrates beneath me, the thing still pounding below. I can feel every impact rattling through the thin metal. Whatever he’s on has turned him into a relentless killing machine.

Ahead, I spot a vent cover above me.

Small miracles.

I roll onto my back in the cramped space, my shoulders pressing into the narrow sides as I lift my legs. The position is awkward, and my chest tightens as the vent seems to close in around me.

I kick hard at the vent cover, my boot slamming into the metal with a dull thud. It doesn’t give.

“Come on,” I mutter through clenched teeth, my frustration boiling over.

I kick again. The metal warps slightly, groaning under the force.

Another kick. This time, a louder whine echoes through the vent. The sound of it feels almost personal, like the vent is fighting back.

I growl under my breath, the sound feral and unrecognizable, and thrust with all my might.

The cover buckles, one side snapping free with a metallic shriek.

Of course.

I shift, planting both feet against the warped metal, and push with everything I have left. My muscles tremble with the effort, and the edge of the vent digs into my shoulder blades. Finally, it bends, leaving just enough space.

I wiggle through the opening, my arms straining as I pull myself up. The sharp edge of the metal scrapes my side, slicing through my shirt and dragging against my skin. Pain flares along my ribs, but I grit my teeth and push through.

The moment I’m free, I roll onto the flat surface of the roof, gravel biting into my palms and knees. The cool wind hits me, chilling the sweat on my skin, and for a second, I just lie there, breathing hard.

Now what?

I sit up slowly, wincing as the gravel grinds against my scraped palms. The roof stretches out around me, plain, flat, and unforgiving. The edge is close, but there’s no railing, just a sheer drop into the chaos below.

I glance toward the distant yard, my heart hammering as I strain to hear anything.

The wind whips past me, cool and relentless, but there’s no more gunfire. No shouts. Just an eerie, unsettling silence.

I push to my feet, my legs trembling slightly, and scan the roof. My gaze locks on a small structure near the center, a metal door at the top of a stairwell, sticking up like a boxy little room.

I move toward it, my boots crunching softly over the gravel. The sound feels deafening in the quiet, each step an echo of my fraying nerves.

When I reach the door, I grab the handle and twist.

It’s locked.

Of course it is.

I clench my jaw, pressing my forehead against the cool metal for a moment as I weigh my options. My breathing slows, the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins.

To the side, something catches my eye, a narrow catwalk connecting this roof to the next building.

It doesn’t look much safer over there, but the height might give me a better view of the yard. Maybe I can see what’s happening.

I step closer to the edge, peering down. The catwalk sways slightly in the wind, the metal grates weathered with rust. My stomach flips at the thought of crossing it, but I know I can’t stay here.

It’s not safe anywhere right now.

My gaze shifts back to the yard in the distance. The silence feels heavier now, thick and oppressive.

The catwalk creaks beneath me as I step onto it, the metal groaning in protest. It shifts slightly, swaying just enough to make my stomach lurch. I don’t look down.

One step at a time.

My fingers grip the rusted metal rail tightly as I move forward, each step slow and carefully placed. The salty air bites at my skin, the wind teasing strands of hair into my face. I glance up as I near the next roof, exhaling in relief as solid ground comes into view.

Carefully, I step off the catwalk, testing the new roof with my weight. It feels steady underfoot, the gravel crunching softly as I take another step.

This should be… I pull up my hazy memories of the too-brief tour Dax gave me.

An inmate dorm? Or something for maintenance? Either way, this isn’t a stop I need to make.

Even so, I approach the access door and jiggle the handle. Locked. Of course.

From here, I can see parts of the yard better. The moonlight stretches over the chaos below, shadows darting between scattered bodies.

I squint, straining to pick out details. There are faint voices in the distance, just far enough away that I can’t make out what’s being said. Not that I’d recognize many voices here. Only one.

I step closer to the roof’s edge, my pulse quickening. I just need to see him.

I scan the yard, hoping for some sign of him. Swaggering across the space, unhurt and in control, exactly the way I expect him to be.

Movement catches my eye.

Several figures heading toward the building.

They aren’t fighting each other, so I reason quickly that they must not have taken whatever that other poor man was forced to take. My mind flashes back to Pauly. I hope he’s sleeping it off somewhere. Not in solitary, unless he’s still unstable.

I shake the thought away and glance toward the fire escape, or whatever these narrow, salt-rusted stairs bolted to the wall are supposed to be.

As I approach, the wind shifts, and the sharp tang of metal fills my nose.

The stairs cling to the side of the building like an afterthought, their edges pitted with rust where the salty air has done its work.

They creak as I step onto the first rung, a metal-on-metal groan that vibrates through my feet.

It doesn’t surprise me. Nothing here has been cared for properly.

The stairs feel as unsteady as everything else in this place, but I keep moving, one cautious step at a time. My fingers skim the cold, rough railing, the rust flaking off beneath my touch.

Sinclair will pay for this.

My resolve hardens with every step I take. The suffering he’s caused. The lives lost on his watch. The men he’s reduced to… this. Someone has to make him answer for it.

The yard grows closer with every careful descent, and my thoughts flicker to the next steps.

Photos of records. Evidence of the program.

The only way to bring this to light is to find proof. There’s no doubt in my mind they’ve buried it under layers of secrecy. Hidden it from the world.

And then Dax’s words slip into my mind, unbidden and heavy.

“People kill to keep those kinds of secrets… It’s the dirty bastards who kill innocent women you need to worry about.”

I push the memory away, focusing on the task ahead.

The next step gives beneath my foot.

The rusted metal snaps like paper, a loud, sharp crack echoing in the stillness.

I slip, my stomach dropping as I instinctively grab for the sides. The jagged railing bites into my palms, slicing deep. The sting is sharp, immediate. My hands jerk away on reflex, wrong move.

My fingers slip completely.

Time slows as my body pitches backward, the building falling away from me in a blur of shadow and moonlight.

I close my eyes, sucking in a sharp breath.

You’re not that high, I tell myself, trying to force the panic back. My heart slams against my ribs as the wind rushes past me. You’re not that high.

The ground races toward me, the cold, hard reality of it tightening around my chest.