Page 68 of Victorious: Part 3

Above us, the sound of metal against concrete echoes through the shaft. Someone is moving around up there, and they’re not part of our plan.

“Haven, we’ve got activity above our position,” I report.

“On it. Thermal shows three figures moving through the main corridor. Could be our guards responding to the riot preparation.”

Riot preparation. Jesus.The plan calls for Valerie’s cell block to erupt in coordinated chaos in exactly eight minutes, giving us cover to extract her while the guards on the Cartel payroll are distracted. But if Garver’s guards are already moving people around too early, this could go south, real quick.

Montana reaches the top of the ladder, and I can practically feel his emotional control fraying. He wants to charge through that access hatch and tear apart anyone between him and his mother. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same thing if it were Poppy up there.

“Dutch, South, you’re with me,” I whisper. “Ink, Strings, secure this position. Nothing gets past you.”

We climb in silence, the metal rungs slick and unforgiving under my gloves. Each step takes us closer to the point of no return. Once we breach that hatch, we’re committed. No going back, no changing our minds. We either get Valerie out alive or we all die trying.

The hatch above Montana’s head is standard maintenance access. Steel frame, basic lock that Loki’s electronic toys should be able to bypass in seconds. Montana clicks the device to the frame, his hands steady despite the emotional storm I know is raging inside him.

A soft click, and the hatch swings open.

Montana peers through first, then signals all clear. We emerge one by one, weapons ready, moving with the coordinated precision that comes from years of brotherhood and shared violence. The corridor is guard-free—they must have moved on—and is dimly lit, institutional fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows that could hide a dozen threats.

The California Institute for Women at night feels like a tomb.

Our boots whisper against polished concrete as we navigate toward the cell blocks, using Garver’s intelligence to avoid camera angles and guard stations. Every shadow could be an enemy, every sound could be our death sentence.

“Haven, we’re in the main facility,” I report.

“I see you. Riot initiation in four minutes. You need to be in position.”

Four minutes to cover two hundred yards of hostile territory and locate Valerie before shit goes sideways.

Doable, if nothing goes wrong.

But in my experience, somethingalwaysgoes wrong.

We’re fifty yards from the cell block when the lights flicker.

Not a power surge.

Not maintenance.

Someone just triggered a damn alert.

“Fuck,” Montana murmurs beside me.

“They know we’re here,” Dutch confirms, his voice tight with combat readiness.

“Haven, we may be blown,” I whisper urgently.

“Negative. Thermal shows no response teams mobilizing. Continue mission.”

But my gut says otherwise.

The lights don’t flicker for no reason in a maximum-security facility. Someone, somewhere, just got very interested in the maintenance tunnels.

We push forward anyway, because stopping now means Valerie dies, and our brothers in five other cities will have done this all for nothing.

The mission comes first.

It always comes first.