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thirty-two

The tunnels smelled like rot, metal, and old piss—a stench that clung to the back of Davey’s throat, acrid and suffocating. The air was thick with damp decay, the kind that settled in places forgotten by time. He adjusted his grip on his rifle, sweeping the darkness ahead as he led the team down the crumbling maintenance stairwell and onto the narrow concrete walkway running parallel to the rusted tracks below.

Every step sent tiny puffs of dust spiraling into the air, settling in his lungs like cement. Rats scattered at their approach, claws skittering against stone, their sleek bodies vanishing into the cracks and debris.

Somewhere overhead, the distant, muffled rumble of a train vibrated through the steel and stone, making the walls shudder slightly. A reminder that even down here, buried beneath the city, the world kept moving.

They moved in tight formation, weapons up, eyes scanning. The space was pitch-black, the only illumination coming from their night vision glasses, casting the world in crisp, high-contrast green and gray. No grain, no distortion. The enhanced optics rendered every detail with sharp precision.

Davey took point.

Rowan was just behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to know exactly where she was. Her footfalls were measured, deliberate, perfectly in sync with his own. Never too far, never too exposed.

A quiet presence at his back, steady as a heartbeat.

It should’ve reassured him.

Instead, it made something in his chest tighten.

She shouldn’t be here.

He knew better than to think that. Rowan was more than capable. She was fast, lethal, trained for this, just like the rest of them. But knowing it didn’t change the way his gut twisted at the thought of something going wrong, of turning around and?—

He cut the thought off before it could settle.

She was here. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it except trust her to watch his back the same way he watched hers.

Even if he did want to swaddle her in bubble wrap and send her back to HQ where she’d be safe.

Sabin moved smoothly behind them, spraying ultraviolet markers along the tunnel walls—tags invisible to the naked eye but glowing faintly in their NVG filters. Breadcrumbs leading home. Not that it would matter if things went to hell.

Tessa followed in the middle of the group, exactly where she should be. She kept one hand tight on Bridger’s shoulder, using him as a guide, her other hand clutching the strap of her med bag, ready to move the second she was needed. She wasn’t slow—she knew how to keep pace, how to stay small and out of the way—but she wasn’t a fighter.

That’s why Bridger stayed close, his head on a swivel, eyes tracking every shadow. And why Weston was right behind her, moving like a man expecting a fight. His rifle was steady in his hands, his steps light and controlled, but there was a sharpness to him—coiled tension beneath all that calm. Every few strides, he adjusted his grip, fingers flexing around the weapon, already measuring distance, angles, preparing for whatever was waiting for them in the dark.

Cade and Dominic held the rear, silent and steady. Davey couldn’t see their faces without turning, but he could hear them—the controlled rhythm of their footfalls, the soft shuffle of movement as they adjusted their positions, always covering the gaps.

They didn’t need orders.

They knew their job.

And on comms—Elliot was in the van at the maintenance tunnel’s entrance. He was their eyes in the sky, piloting their drone, monitoring every possible angle aboveground. Daphne was back at HQ, watching their movements in real time and feeding them intel.

It should’ve felt like a full force. A team with every gap covered, every angle secured.

So why did Davey’s gut keep twisting?

Because tonight had the makings of something bad.

His earpiece crackled, and Elliot’s voice came through, clipped and annoyed: “Talk to me.”

“You still in the van?”

“Where else would I be? Oh right. In there, where all the action is—except you benched me.”

Davey exhaled sharply, already regretting this conversation. “You were poisoned two days ago.”

“Yeah, and yet here I am, still capable of basic motor function.”

“We need someone running point,” he said, cutting off any argument. “You’re it. And we need eyes—get the drone in the air.”

A pause. Then Elliot let out a dry, unimpressed laugh. “You realize you’re underground, right? Or did the smell of piss and despair down there get to your brain?”

Davey sighed. “If Brody gets aboveground, I want to know about it before he ghosts us.”

Silence. Then a grudging, “Yeah, okay.”

Elliot was pissed, but he also understood the necessity of strategy. Someone had to monitor surveillance, track movement, and coordinate reinforcements on the ground. They were already operating with one hand tied behind their backs and couldn’t afford to go in blind.

Davey immediately lifted a hand, signaling for everyone to hold. The team froze, instinct taking over, shifting into firing positions.

The tunnel stretched behind them, wide enough to fit an old subway track—one that hadn’t seen a train in decades. Through the grainy green glow of his NVGs, the space was all jagged stone, crumbling walls, and rusted steel. The air was thick with damp and dust, every inhale laced with the scent of rot and stagnant water.

Then—movement.

A figure moving fast.

Sullivan.

Davey’s chest tightened. “Stand down. It’s Sully.”

Fucking Sullivan.

He wasn’t supposed to be here alone.

Hell, he wasn’t supposed to be here at all.

But of course he was.

Sullivan was on them in a matter of heartbeats, moving too fast, rifle slung across his chest, his gaze locked straight ahead. He wasn’t even looking at them as he powered down the tracks, his strides unshaken, his focus fixed on whatever was waiting ahead.

Davey jumped down onto the track, boots hitting steel and gravel with a muted thud. He moved fast, planting himself directly in Sullivan’s path.

“Sully.”

Sullivan didn’t slow.

Davey’s pulse ticked higher. The guy wasn’t hesitating. Wasn’t even acknowledging them.

Shit.

He reached out and grabbed Sully’s shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, forcing him to stop. “Damn it, look at me.”

Sullivan finally stopped.

But when he turned, his face was set like stone—cold, detached.

Davey had seen that look before. He’d seen it on men about to do something they couldn’t take back.

The kind of men who had already made up their minds.

Sullivan wasn’t thinking anymore. He was acting.

And if Davey didn’t stop him now, he wasn’t sure anyone could.

“You’re too close to this,” he said, voice low, steady. “You know it. I know it. Get out of here. Go home. You don’t need to see this if it goes south.”

No reaction. Not even a flicker. “If my brother has to die tonight, I’m the one pulling the trigger.”

Davey’s stomach turned. “Sully, no.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a warning.

Maybe both.

For the first time since Davey had stepped in his way, Sullivan looked at him.

The enhanced optics of their next-gen NVGs made the world crystal clear even in total darkness—no grainy static, no distortion. Just sharp, high-contrast detail, every feature rendered in eerie shades of green.

And what Davey saw unsettled him.

There was nothing behind those eyes—just a calculated, empty stillness.

Not rage.

Not grief.

Nothing.

Like he’d already made his peace with what was coming.

Davey’s stomach twisted.

That wasn’t Sullivan.

That was a man who’d already decided someone wasn’t walking out of this tunnel alive.

Sullivan’s voice was flat. “Would you sit this out? If it was one of your brothers?”

The question hit like a punch to the ribs—sharp, direct, and impossible to ignore. His grip tightened on Sullivan’s jacket, but he had no answer.

Instead, his gaze flicked up to the walkway.

Through the ghostly green glow of his NVGs, he picked out Dominic from the group. His brother was holding position near Cade, rifle steady, expression unreadable. But Davey didn’t need to see his face to know the truth.

If Dom was the one standing in Brody’s place, Davey wouldn’t stop either.

His stomach clenched.

Sullivan wasn’t just chasing a traitor. He was hunting his twin.

His other half.

And if it was Elliot or Dominic on the other side of this?

Davey would be the one marching down that tunnel, too.

The others were watching, waiting to see how this would play out. He could order Sullivan to stand down, but that wouldn’t do shit. If he forced the issue, Sullivan would go completely rogue.

And Davey couldn’t afford to lose both of the O’Connell twins in one night.

He exhaled, tension coiled tight in his chest. “Fine. But you follow my lead.”

Sullivan didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because if it came down to it, they both knew he wouldn’t.

But at least, for now, he fell into line with the rest of the team.

They moved forward, leaving the cramped tunnel behind as the space ahead opened up into something larger. The walls widened, the air shifting—less suffocating, but colder.

The ghost station.

A cavernous expanse of crumbling tile and rusted steel, forgotten beneath the city.

The station’s platform stretched out beside them, half-swallowed by darkness. The remains of old signage clung to the walls—letters half-faded, warped with time and water damage. Stagnant puddles lined the cracked concrete floor, their surfaces rippling as rats scurried through them, disturbed by their approach.

Somewhere above, the distant vibration of a train rumbled through the infrastructure, a ghost of movement in a place meant for the dead.

Davey kept his weapon raised, scanning the space ahead, every muscle tight.

Then—he saw him.

Liam.

Cuffed to a rusting bench.

A bomb vest strapped to his chest.

The world narrowed.

His vision tunneled, everything zeroing in on the blinking red countdown.

Five minutes.

Someone inhaled sharply.

Bridger went still.

A long string of Cajun French flowed from Sabin.

“Shit,” Weston breathed.