The three of them—Bobo, Luce, and Elliot—slipped out into the night, shadows in a city built on silence.
The moment they stepped past Luce's gate, a sharp, repetitive voice echoed through the streets like a cold warning:
7PM CURFEW—IT IS NOW CURFEW—STAY IN YOUR HOMES—7PM CURFEW—STAY IN YOUR HOMES—
The announcement blared from loudspeakers mounted on rusted poles overhead. Spotlights swung methodically across the alley, carving white arcs of danger into the darkness.
They kept low, moving single file against the brick wall, every step calculated. The faint whirl of a surveillance drone hummed in the air above them.
At the corner, Elliot held up a fist—stop. He peeked around the edge of a building, breath shallow, eyes scanning.
"…Clear," he whispered, waving them forward.
They moved in tight. Bobo ducked behind a crate, eyes scanning the sky, metal fingers curling into a silent warning. He held up one finger to his lips.
"Shh…"
A beam of light passed just overhead. They froze—barely a breath between them.
Luce peered over the edge.
"We're good."
They pushed forward.
Winding through alleyways like smoke, they weaved between dumpsters, broken fences, and rusted-out vehicles. Drones buzzed above them in rhythmic passes. Every step was a gamble. Every second, a countdown.
Finally, the junkyard came into view—beyond a chain-link fence and a patch of open ground bathed in flickering yellow light. They ducked behind a stack of shipping crates, crouched low as Elliot carefully peeked out.
His face tightened.
"Shit…"
Luce tensed.
"What?"
Bobo leaned in, his whisper like gravel.
"The fuck's the hold-up, Eli?"
Elliot pulled back, shaking his head.
"They didn't rotate. The guards. They're still posted."
"They're supposed to rotate," Luce hissed. "You said we'd have a window."
"I know what I said," Elliot snapped under his breath. "But something's wrong. They're on full lockdown. Has to be 'cause of Desmond. They're spooked."
Bobo clenched his jaw.
"How long till they move?"
"They won't," Elliot muttered. "That's the problem. Once they go high alert, they lock positions and reinforce with more boots. No rotations. No gaps. Just... walls of guns."
A silence settled over the three of them—heavy and tight.
Bobo's hand slowly curled around the grip of his shotgun.
"So what now?" he asked, eyes narrowed. "We go loud?"
Elliot swallowed hard.
"If we go loud, we better be ready to run through hell."
Luce glanced up, eyes sharp and calculating.
"Then we will.."
They each cocked their weapons—muscle memory meeting resolve. The quiet clinks of metal on metal rang sharp in the tense silence as they rose from behind the crate, ready to go head-on.
But just as they stood—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunshots cracked in the distance—sharp, rapid, close.
They all froze.
"—The fuck?" Bobo growled, turning sharply, eyes scanning the dark alley behind them. "That ain't for us…"
Luce dropped low instinctively, peering through the gaps between crates. But she couldn't see the source. Smoke maybe. Muzzle flash? Nothing.
Elliot looked toward the soldiers.
"Wait—look!"
The guards by the junkyard fence pressed fingers to their earpieces, heads turning as voices barked through their comms. Within seconds, they moved—one after another, peeling away from their post and heading back toward the noise.
"Well, would you look at that…" Luce muttered, a dangerous smirk pulling at her lips.
Elliot's eyes tracked the movement.
"Someone just took the heat off us."
Bobo gave a low, impressed chuckle.
"Hope whoever that is makes it. We owe 'em a drink."
"Or a goddamn monument," Elliot muttered. "Let's move. That's our window."
He checked the corners one last time, then gave the signal.
They sprinted.
Boots hit pavement, pounding hard as they darted toward the junkyard gate. Bobo reached it first—no hesitation. He grabbed the thick iron chains and with a metallic screech, ripped them free like they were thread. The gate burst open.
They tore into the junkyard, weaving through towering piles of old metal—rusted refrigerators, half-crushed sedans, twisted beams from buildings long forgotten. The air stank of oil and decay. The sharp crunch of gravel and scattered glass marked every step.
Behind them, sirens erupted again. Boots thundered. Soldiers shouted. Gunfire cracked in another direction. Someone else was still taking the heat.
"Where the fuck is it, Eli?!" Bobo shouted, ducking under a crumbling frame of an old cargo truck.
"Back corner!" Elliot called out, dodging a fallen girder.
They reached it—a rusted car barely recognizable, sitting alone in a patch of open dirt. Bobo didn't stop. He grabbed it by the hood, grunted, and heaved. The vehicle groaned but lifted, dirt and rust raining off the undercarriage.
Luce slid beneath his arm, brushing off a rectangular dirt-covered panel in the ground.
"What's the code?!"
"Seven-two-three-four!"
Elliot yelled over the wailing sirens.
She punched it in fast—beep-beep-beep-beep—HISS. The panel split open with a blast of stale, cold air.
Elliot didn't wait.
"GO! GO! GO!"
Luce dropped first, disappearing into the opening. Elliot followed a second later. Bobo gave one last glance back—boots stormed across the far end of the yard—and then he ducked in.