Page 46 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

The SUV eats up the dark stretch of road, headlights slicing through the low mist. No one speaks.

The silence is thick enough to hear the grind of gravel under the tires and the distant rumble of the river beyond the pines.

My shoulder throbs with every vibration; the pulse of pain is an anchor that keeps me sharp.

The closer we get to the facility, the more the air changes—like the ground remembers what we did to it.

Smoke still lingers in places, a faint chemical tang in the wind.

The upper east wing is nothing but a jagged silhouette now, metal warped inward, blackened edges curling like burnt paper.

But below it? The skeletal remains of Volker's underground network still stand, untouched and waiting beneath the ruined shell above.

Kinley slows the SUV as we near the access road.

Lydia kills the headlights. The vehicle drifts forward in near-darkness until the outline of the service gate emerges—a rusted chain-link, half-collapsed from the blast shockwave.

No guards. No movement. Just the hush of trees and the far-off hum of whatever power still runs deep underground.

"We go in from the west tunnel," I say. "No deviations. No comms unless it’s life or death."

Lydia nods once, already pulling the handheld jammer from her kit. "Five minutes of static when we hit the first hatch. After that, we’re ghosts."

I step out first. The cold bites deep, sharper than it should be. Behind me, Mara follows, pulling her jacket tighter. She doesn’t ask where we’re going—she already knows. She saw him, too. Jori, alive in the feed. Shackled by Volker’s intent.

Kinley pops the rear hatch and hands out both go-bags. I sling mine over my good shoulder, pass Mara hers. She doesn’t look inside, just keeps her eyes on me. Waiting.

"Stay behind me. If I tell you to move, you move," I tell her.

"I know," she says.

The western access road curves toward a bluff where a line of crumbling concrete hides the old maintenance shafts. I used one years ago, back when this place ran on stolen contracts and black-market transport. It smells the same now—oil, dust, the faint metallic tang of forgotten air.

Kinley kneels by the first hatch, running his fingers along the seam until he finds the recessed lock. He glances at me. "Still the old code?"

"Volker's nothing if not arrogant."

Kinley keys it in. The mechanism grinds reluctantly before the hatch pops open with a shuddering sigh.

The air that spills out is stale and damp. Beneath it is something else—faint, but enough to tighten the muscles at the back of my neck. A trace of cleaning solvent. Recent.

"Someone’s been through here recently," Lydia says.

"Then we’re not alone," I answer.

Mara steps closer to me without realizing it. I don’t move away.

We descend into the dark.

The shaft is narrow, slick underfoot. My hand skims the wall until we reach the lower platform, where rusted rails run parallel to the tunnel mouth. It stretches ahead, vanishing into black. Somewhere far off, a drip echoes in slow, uneven intervals.

"This leads to Sublevel C," I tell them. "Straight to where we saw him."

Lydia sweeps her light across the walls. Old transport markings scar the concrete, most of which are too faded to read. But fresh scuffs drag along the floor—a recent path, something heavy moved by more than one person.

Kinley notices too. "They were hauling something in. Or someone."

I don’t need him to say the name.

We move forward, boots whispering against damp concrete. Every turn brings us deeper, the air growing heavier, the silence folding in. My pulse evens out, my thoughts narrowing to the single thread ahead.

We’re close now.

And this time, Volker doesn’t get to vanish into the dark.

The tunnel squeezes us tighter the further we go.

Overhead, thick cables cling to the walls like black veins, humming faintly with residual current.

The smell of solvent strengthens, tinged now with something acrid—burned insulation, maybe.

Lydia mutters a curse under her breath but keeps her light trained low.

Mara’s breathing is slow, measured, but I can see her fingers twitch against the strap of her bag. She’s fighting her instincts. This place is a snare for both of us, just in different ways.

“Left up ahead,” I say quietly. My voice doesn’t carry far; the air swallows sound here.

Kinley checks the corner first, his rifle angled low but ready. He nods us through. The corridor angles sharply down, the grade steep enough that our boots scuff for balance. Water trickles along one side, following us down.

A shadow crosses the far end of the hall, not from our lights.

We freeze.

I move first, closing the distance in silence, each step measured. My shoulder protests every shift of weight, but the pain sharpens my focus. At the bend, I flatten against the wall and glance around.

Empty hall.

Except for the smear of blood low on the wall—fresh, dark, and still wet enough to catch our light.

Mara catches up, her gaze locking on the streak. “Jori?”

“Possibly,” I say. But my gut says otherwise.

Kinley crouches, touching the edge with gloved fingers. “Smaller than his frame. This was someone else.”

Which means we’re not just chasing Jori anymore.

We keep moving. The tunnel opens wider, the ceiling lifting into ribbed metal arches. Old maintenance signs hang crooked, their stenciled letters barely legible. Beyond them, a faint glow spills from an open doorway on the left.

I motion for silence and step toward it.

Inside, the room hums faintly—an equipment bay, stripped down except for a cluster of monitors on a rolling rack. One still flickers with a grainy feed: a corner of Sublevel C’s holding corridor.

Jori is in the frame.

And he’s not alone.

I step closer to the screen, the dim light cutting across my face.

Jori is shackled to the wall, his head tipped forward.

His shoulders shift slightly—breathing. Alive.

But the figure pacing in front of him draws my attention more: tall, precise, with a predator’s patience. Not Volker. Someone I don’t recognize.

Kinley leans in, eyes narrowing. “Not one of his regulars.”

“New player,” Lydia says. “Could be the one moving pieces while Volker stays in the dark.”

I study the stranger’s movements, the way he glances at the ceiling corners. Checking cameras. He knows he’s being watched.

Mara steps closer to me, her voice low. “We can’t just watch.”

“No,” I agree. “We won’t.”

I tap the monitor casing, tracing the timestamp in the corner. This feed is live. That means the corridor is no more than two levels down. But we’ll need to pass through the choke points—places Volker designed to slow an approach.

I look at Kinley. “Route?”

He pulls a folded schematic from his vest, laying it across a dust-coated workbench. “We’re here. We take service hall B, cut through the old generator room, then drop into the holding corridor from the blind side. If they’ve got sensors active, we’ll trip them no matter what.”

“Then we make speed our advantage,” I say.

Lydia’s mouth curves faintly. “Fast and loud. My favorite.”

Mara’s eyes flick between us. “And if it’s a trap?”

“It will be,” I say. “We walk in anyway.”

We move out of the room fast, the schematic burned into my mind.

Service hall B is narrower than I remember; every pipe along the wall is sweating condensation.

Our footsteps sound louder here, the space amplifying each shift of weight.

The old generator room smells of rust and the sharp scent of ionized air, the hulking machines long dead but still holding the echo of power.

Halfway through, movement flashes in my periphery. I swing toward it, rifle up. A figure darts between the shadows—small, fast. Not Jori. Not armed. Gone before I can get a clear line.

Kinley sweeps the far corner. “Clear.”

“Not clear,” I counter. “Eyes up.”

We press on, descending a final set of metal stairs that hum faintly under our boots. At the base, the air shifts—colder, heavier. The holding corridor waits just ahead, its light spilling pale and sterile across the threshold.

I signal halt, crouching low to peer around the frame. The pacing man is still there, closer to Jori now, speaking low enough that the words don’t carry. Jori’s head lifts fractionally, but his expression stays unreadable.

“Positions,” I murmur. Lydia and Kinley fan out to either side of the doorway. Mara stays just behind me, her hand tight on my sleeve.

One breath to steady. One more to commit.

Then we move.

We surge into the holding corridor in one violent motion. My boots strike the tile hard, the echo ricocheting off steel and concrete. The pacing man spins toward us, hand going for a weapon under his coat.

“Down,” I bark, driving Mara toward the wall behind me.

Kinley fires first. The round pings off the frame above the stranger’s head.

He moves like someone trained for close quarters—no hesitation, no wasted steps.

His gun comes up. Lydia’s shot blows it from his hand, the weapon clattering across the floor.

“On your knees,” Kinley orders.

The man doesn’t kneel. He smiles—just a tilt of his mouth—before lunging for a control panel on the wall.

I slam into him before he can reach it. The impact jars my shoulder, sending a white-hot flash down my arm.

My fingers clamp around his collar, twisting hard as I drive him backward into the wall. His head snaps against concrete.

“Who are you working for?” I snarl.

He doesn’t answer. His eyes flick to Jori, then back to me.

Mara slips past me toward the shackles. “Jori—”

“Don’t touch him!” the man shouts. His voice is sharp, panicked. Too late—Kinley’s already moving to cover her. Lydia circles behind the stranger, zip-tying his wrists in one clean motion.

I turn to Jori. He’s thinner than the last time I saw him, his skin pale under the cold fluorescents. His gaze is locked on me, something unreadable in it. “Still here,” he says, voice rough.

“Not for lack of their trying,” I answer.

Mara’s hands hover near the shackles, waiting. “We can cut him out.”

“Do it fast,” I say.

The stranger starts laughing. Low at first, then louder, like something about this moment amuses him more than it should.

“What’s funny?” Lydia asks, her tone flat.

“You think getting him out changes anything?” he says. “Volker let you find this room.”

I step closer. “Then tell me why.”

“To put you right where he wants you,” the man replies. “And you just walked in.”

Kinley swears under his breath. “We need to move. Now.”

The panel the stranger was reaching for blinks to life on its own, lights scrolling in sequence. A countdown starts.

I shove the man toward Lydia. “Drag him. We’re not leaving him behind.”

Mara frees the last shackle, and Jori stumbles forward, catching himself against the wall. I grab his arm. “Stay with me.”

The countdown ticks lower. Somewhere above us, the deep groan of shifting metal starts.

Whatever Volker’s trap is, we’re in it now.

The sound grows—metal locking into place, walls compressing with mechanical finality. A faint hiss follows, and the air turns sharp, chemical. Kinley yanks his collar up over his mouth. “Gas.”

“Move!” I snap.

We bolt down the corridor, dragging both the prisoner and Jori. Lydia’s ahead, scanning for exits, her light bouncing off steel bulkheads. Mara keeps pace beside me, her hand gripping the back of my jacket like a tether.

A door seals shut behind us with a clang that vibrates through the floor. The countdown bleeds into a steady alarm now, each pulse reverberating in my bones. Every turn feels tighter, the air heavier.

“There—service hatch!” Lydia shouts.

It’s half-hidden behind a fallen panel, but Kinley’s already shoving it aside. I push Jori through first, then Mara, then our captive. Kinley follows, and I drag myself in last, my injured shoulder screaming as I pull the hatch closed.

The noise dampens instantly. Only our ragged breathing and the dull thud of my pulse remain.

“We’re not clear yet,” I say. “This tunnel loops back toward the generator room. We use it to get out—fast.”

In the dim glow, Mara’s eyes search mine. “And if Volker’s waiting at the other end?”

I let my hand rest briefly on her jaw, the contact grounding both of us. “Then we stop running.”