Page 71 of Tag (The Golden Team #9)

Tag

T he dust was so thick it turned my throat to sandpaper. Every strike of the sledgehammer against the rock wall sent another choking cloud into the air, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

On the other side of this collapse was Aponi.

“Two feet,” Gideon grunted, swinging hard. “Maybe less.”

“Then hit it like you mean it,” I growled. My arms burned, but I kept swinging, the metal head biting deeper into the packed dirt and splintered timbers. Faron’s hands were bleeding. I looked at mine and then Gideon’s; all of our hands were bleeding.

Through the communications, Callahan’s voice crackled. “Thermals show two heat signatures moving in the mine. One’s definitely Aponi. The other… matches Graves’ build.”

That was all I needed to hear. “Move faster.”

Aponi

The tunnel narrowed until my shoulders brushed the walls. My light flickered, fighting against the thick dark. Every sound echoed—my boots, my breath, the faint drip of water somewhere ahead.

And footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

Graves was close.

I eased forward, pistol steady. Every instinct told me to wait for Tag, but the thought of Graves slipping away into another hole somewhere in the world made my blood run hot.

The tunnel curved, and there he was—standing in an open pocket of the mine, lit only by a swinging lantern. His pistol was in his right hand, low, casual.

“You took the left tunnel,” he said, voice low and amused. “Smart. The right one’s flooded. Would’ve been… unpleasant.”

I kept the gun aimed at his chest. “You’re done running.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “And you’re still not ready to pull that trigger.”