Page 61 of Victorious: Part 3

Our breathing shallows, but our weapons rise.

We all feel it.

This isn’t just another takedown.

This is something worse.

Something alive.

And we’re about to tear it apart.

“Contact,” Warden’s voice cuts through the comm. “Two guards, armed with semi-automatic rifles.”

The sharp crack of suppressed gunfire echoes up the shaft. Through my night vision, the blasting of gunfire from the lower levels lights up the darkened tunnels as my brothers engage the facility’s security force. “Guards neutralized. Proceeding to level two.”

Through the reinforced windows of the main laboratory, sophisticated chemical equipment looms—distillation columns, reaction vessels, and processing tanks that could supply drugs to half the western United States.

But it’s not the equipment that makes my blood boil.

It’s the people in lab coats working under armed supervision.

“Ghost, are you clocking this?” I ask in a hushed voice so the guards don’t hear me.

“Oh, yeah. I count six civilians in lab coats, four armedguards. The civilians look weird. They’re fucking scared. Moving like they’re being coerced.”

“Hash, prep for civilian medical evaluation. These people have been held against their will for God knows how long,” I order.

“On it.”

“Axel, start evidence collection. I want samples of everything they’re producing, plus any documentation you can find.”

“Already started, Pres,” he states into the comms, his voice crackling with grim enthusiasm. It’s the kind of energy that comes from knowing we’re finally cutting out a rot that’s been festering far too long under our noses.

The breach into level two is swift and efficient. Koa moves like a steamroller, Shotgun pressed tight to his shoulder, the modified rounds barking into the shadows. The impact isn’t lethal, but damn if it doesn’t hit hard. Guards drop to the ground with sharp, painful grunts, their limbs twitching from the electric shock that follows.

But it’s not the downed Cartel soldiers that stick in my mind.

It’s the civilians.

Dozens of them.

Men and women in white coats and surgical masks cower behind lab counters, pressed against walls, some curled into corners like beaten dogs.

The fear rolling off them isn’t relief.

It’sterror.

I lower my weapon, hand raised. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

They don’t move.

“Hash, get over here,” I call, my voice tightening as I step toward the closest scientist.

She’s in her fifties, maybe. Her hair’s fraying from a too-tight bun, lab coat stained and crumpled. Her eyes are wide, glassy, and they lock onto mine like she’s waiting for a bullet.

“I need you to tell me what this place is,” I ask in a harsh tone.

She flinches at the sound of my voice. Her hands shake so hard I think she might drop to her knees. For a moment, all I can hear is the beep of machines and the soft whir of fans overhead, like the facility itself is holding its breath.