I squeezed Patrick's wrist harder, pain blazing up my arm, and met his hateful gaze and snarled, "Not that easy, bastard."
I ground my teeth and forced myself upright. My vision tunneled at the edges; veins stood out in my neck and temples. Patrick stared, stunned, as the knife began to turn back on him. He blinked, disbelieving, threw his weight into it—
and I slammed my forehead into his nose.
He reeled. I ripped the knife from his hand and snapped my arm up. One heartbeat to aim—the guard hauling the doctor toward the exit—then I threw.
The blade buried itself in the back of the guard's neck. His knees folded. He collapsed, and the doctor—half-conscious—crashed down beside him.
But the lab's metal doors were already cycling open.
Another red-clad guard abandoned the control station and came at me with a baton. Breathless, I growled, "Again?"
Patrick tore his bloody hand from his shattered nose and screamed, "You little bitch—I'll skin you myself!"
He lunged. I drove my fingertips into his throat. He gagged, hands clawing at his neck, eyes bulging, temples throbbing, face purpling.
"Shut up," I hissed, rising.
I jammed a hand into his coat and yanked out his white admin card. By the time I straightened, the baton arced for my head. I caught it mid-swing, rode his momentum, and sprang—both feet thudding into his chest. We flew apart and hit the floor.
Propped on my hands, I checked the doctor—one palm pressed to his bloody scalp as he used the wall to drag himself upright.
I looked to the glass cell. Gas—dark and thick— was flooding Ashur's chamber. Damn it. They were putting him under.
The lab door was closing. Any second the hall would flood with Red Ward Security and our window would close.
I pushed to my feet and sprinted for the door. The short stretch felt endless, like years between steps. I was gasping.
If Ashur went under, all of it—every risk, every death, every torture—meant nothing. If he dropped and I was alone, we'd never claw out of this hell.
I grabbed for the handle. The indicator beside it glowed red; the lab door was sealing. I had to cut power—
A gunshot cracked behind me. As I dove through the gap, fire ripped across my thigh. A raw cry tore out of me. The world blinked black and the metal door slammed shut.
Limping, I staggered to the safety glass panel beside the door and smashed it with my elbow. I shoved Patrick's card into the reader and slammed the red button, panting.
The room alarms flared crimson. Doors across the sector began auto-locking. A heavy steel shutter screamed down and sealed the lab.
Sweat slid from my temples and dripped off my jaw. I hobbled to the control bank. Blood streamed from the bullet graze in my leg. I braced on the console, chest heaving, hair pasted to my temples and neck.
Beyond the shutter, gunfire rattled and boots hammered. They were trying both sides. They'd find a breach soon, and my time to free Ashur would vanish.
Hands shaking, I docked Patrick's card into the console. I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
I held onto the table so I wouldn't fall.
I didn't have long. Either I killed the power in time—or I died.