The door opens easily—not locked, because why bother when they have guards and cameras everywhere? The hallway beyond is industrial concrete and exposed pipes, underground bunker aesthetic that screams paramilitary with suspicious funding. The air tastes recycled, confirming we're deep enough that escape on foot will be a bitch.
Two guards stand at the end of the corridor, trying to look casual while obviously stationed there to watch us. Theystraighten when they see me, hands drifting toward weapons they're trying not to obviously reach for.
"Just stretching my legs," I tell them, injecting enough exhaustion into my voice to seem harmless. "Doc says I need to move around."
They exchange glances but don't stop me as I shuffle past, playing up the injury more than necessary. Let them think I'm weaker than I am. Let them underestimate the damaged alpha who can barely walk.
The common area beyond is spartan but functional—couches that have seen better days, a coffee table covered in tactical gear magazines, and a kitchenette that smells like burnt coffee. I collapse onto the nearest couch with a theatrical groan, scanning the space while pretending to catch my breath.
Above, I hear Juniper moving through the vents, subtle shifts of weight that anyone else would dismiss as the building settling. She's good at this, my clever girl. The shadows whisper secrets to her that sometimes turn out to be true, and right now I hope they're guiding her toward an exit.
My fingers trail along the coffee table's surface, finding the worn spines of books someone left behind. Military thrillers, mostly, the kind of aggressive masculine fiction that?—
Something sharp bites into my finger.
I pull the book closer, casual as examining the cover, and nearly laugh at what I find. One of Juniper's ceramic knives, tucked between pages like the world's deadliest bookmark. Either someone's keeping it as a trophy or they're even more arrogant than I thought, leaving weapons where their prisoners might find them.
The knife disappears up my sleeve with practiced ease, resting against my forearm like a lover's touch. Through the observation window, I catch movement—a screw in the hallway vent slowly spinning free.
Time for that distraction.
I stand too quickly, letting my leg buckle with theatricality. The crash as I hit the floor is genuine enough. The pain makes sure of that. But the gasping and clutching at my chest is pure performance.
"Shit!" One guard rushes forward while the other fumbles with the door code. "He's having a seizure or something!"
I convulse convincingly, making sure to knock over the coffee table in the process, scattering magazines and creating enough chaos to cover the sound of Juniper dropping from the ceiling like an avenging angel in borrowed clothes.
The guard by the door never sees her coming. She flows up behind him like smoke, arms wrapping around his throat in a blood choke that has him unconscious in seconds, just after the door pops open. No permanent damage—she's gotten soft about collateral damage lately—but effective enough.
The second guard spins toward her, hand going for his weapon, but I'm already moving through the open door. The knife slides from my sleeve to my hand, and I drive the handle into his temple with enough force to drop him without killing him since I'm sure Juniper will have something to say about that. He crumples like wet paper, gun clattering across the concrete.
"Good job," I tell Juniper, pulling her in for a quick, fierce kiss. She grins against my mouth, pupils blown wide with adrenaline and pride.
"I'm awesome," she agrees, then drops to search the unconscious guards. Keys jingle as she pulls them free, along with keycards and one semi-automatic that she passes to me. "There's an exit two levels up, but it's crawling with security."
"When has that ever stopped us?" I check the gun's magazine—full, safety off, ready to paint walls with anyone who getsbetween us and freedom. But when I start toward the door, Juniper catches my arm.
"Try not to kill them," she says, and I can see the conflict in her eyes. "These aren't our usual targets."
I sigh. I knew this was coming. She's not wrong, exactly. These are... something else. Not good, exactly, but not the monsters we're used to hunting.
"Juniper—"
"Please." The word seems to stick in her throat. "Just... try."
I want to argue, want to point out that mercy gets you killed in our world, but those hazel eyes are pleading with me in a way that bypasses all my logical circuits and goes straight to the part of me that would burn the world to ash if she asked me nicely.
"Fine," I growl, switching my grip on the gun to use it as a club instead of its intended purpose. "But if they kill us because you've gone soft, I'm haunting your ass."
She laughs, bright and manic, and produces her recovered knife with a flourish. "Race you to the exit."
We move through the compound like ghosts, Juniper leading the way through maintenance corridors and service passages she mapped during her reconnaissance. Three more guards cross our path, and I take them down with precise strikes that leave them breathing but unconscious. Each time I don't pull the trigger, Juniper's smile gets a little wider.
The exit appears ahead, a heavy steel door with multiple locks and a keypad that should be impossible to crack. I set to work, which is easier said than done without any of my equipment. But not impossible. Drugged and injured or not, I still have my skills.
The lock disengages with a satisfying beep, and we stumble out into mountain air that tastes like freedom. We're on a narrow ledge carved into granite, the compound built into themountain itself. The sun blinds me after days of fluorescent light.
"There," Juniper points to a dirt road winding down the mountain to what looks like a garage, if not another bunker. "If we can find a vehicle?—"
