Page 6 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

Emery

S omething changed.

It was strange.

It was subtle at first.

A hum in the concrete.

A faint clink of metal two rooms over.

Then— silence.

Not the kind I’d gotten used to.

Not the heavy, listening kind.

This was different.

It was tense.

Breaths held.

The whole building seemed to be holding its breath.

I moved to the center of the room, stood under the flickering bulb, and listened.

Again.

Nothing.

Then footsteps.

Not the ones I’d come to know—those heavy, cocky boots the guards wore like badges of control.

These were faster. Smoother.

Trained.

Military.

My heart kicked.

I didn’t let myself hope yet.

Hope got you killed.

But then I heard it—just one word, low and clipped, coming from beyond the door:

“Clear.”

American accent.

Sharp. Controlled. Familiar.

And then—

“Room four. She’s close.”

I moved.

Fast.

I grabbed the metal water cup and stood with my back to the door, my pulse racing like it was race day in Tokyo all over again.

If it was them—my captors—I’d fight.

Again.

But if it wasn’t?

If it was—

The lock clicked.

And the door opened.

Two silhouettes filled the frame, armed and ready.

The taller one stepped forward first, weapon lowered.

Dark eyes. Strong jaw. Quiet power in the way he moved.

He froze.

So did I.

“Emery Blake?” he asked, voice low.

I didn’t drop the cup.

“Who’s asking?”

“Oliver Steel,” he said, slowly lowering the rifle to his side. “We’re here to get you out.”

I stared at him for half a second longer, studying the calm in his eyes, the muscle twitch in his jaw like he hadn’t breathed until now.

Then I exhaled.

Finally.

“About damn time.”

He smiled.