Page 7 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

Emery

T he hallway was darker than I remembered.

Or maybe it was just me—running on fumes, with bruised ribs and too many nights in a cell.

Oliver handed me a sidearm without a word. His fingers brushed mine—steady, warm, reassuring.

“I know how to use it,” I said.

“I figured,” he said with a hint of a grin. “Still didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”

Cyclone took lead down the corridor, clearing each corner like a machine. I followed in front of Oliver, barefoot but fast, heartbeat like a drum in my ears.

“Exit’s east side,” I whispered. “There’s a storage room with a tunnel that leads out behind the old maintenance shed.”

Oliver glanced at me. “How do you know that?”

“I wasn’t just locked up,” I said. “I was watching and listening. ”

“Remind me not to underestimate you,” he muttered.

I gave him a tight smile. “Too late.”

Gunfire cracked behind us.

Cyclone spun. “Move!”

We ran.

The building exploded into chaos—shouts, boots pounding, alarms shrieking. I ducked behind a column, took a shot at one of the guards sprinting down the hallway, and kept running.

Pain tore through my side. The adrenaline held it back.

For now.

We reached the storage room and kicked through the false wall. I don’t know how they knew it was a false wall, and I didn’t care.

Cyclone dropped into the tunnel first, then me, then Oliver—who turned mid-jump to seal the grate behind us.

Darkness swallowed us whole.

My chest heaved.

But I didn’t stop.

It was not until we hit the hatch at the far end, when Cyclone eased it open, revealing the treeline beyond.

Night air. Wind. Freedom.

I stumbled once, knees threatening to buckle.

Oliver caught me.

“Easy,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I said I’m fine. ”

But when his hand settled on the small of my back—solid, warm, grounding—I didn’t pull away.

Because for the first time in days...

I believed I actually might live through this.