Gunfire intensified; the steel shutters rattled on their tracks. I knew every Red Ward unit in the main corridor was pushing for the lab, and any second they'd force a way in.
I dragged a computer chair behind me as a shield.
Keeping my eyes on the monitor, I slid the mouse and tore into the doctor's security system. A tab at the top blinked: Power Management. I clicked. A power-usage graph filled the screen. My eyes stung; I blinked hard, then locked on the bottom corner—a red button labeled Emergency Shutdown.
My fingers shook above the mouse. The noise swelled; they were trying to pry the shutter up. Panting, I scanned the lab… no weapon. That was it for me. I glued my eyes to the screen and held my breath.
Cut the power and, per the plan, Ashur's glass cell would auto-release.
My cold finger slipped.
Final click.
A red prompt splashed across the display: Are you sure? This will trigger full blackout. I clicked again without thinking. A brutal clack sounded; from somewhere behind the wall came a long, muffled whump—and then the lab fell into absolute silence. The monitor died. Darkness swallowed the room.
All I heard were magazines slapping home behind the shutter and the heavy tread of boots.
The vent fans coasted, then stopped. Silence sealed in.
I held my breath and pressed a hand to my thigh. Power was down. Was Ashur still conscious? Could he get out?
Gunfire restarted—loud, close—peppering the doors. The shutters juddered, groaning out of their housings. A ribbon of light cut under the metal lip and spread across the floor.
I stared at the shutter, horrified. They were levering it up with some device, inch by inch; the crack and tear of metal scraped my nerves raw.
Every muscle locked. I eased the chair in front of me and ducked. A shot cracked; glass and lab gear exploded behind me.
The shutter clawed up halfway. Through the gap beneath the bench, I watched red-clad gunmen pour into the room.
I dropped flat and pressed myself entirely behind the desk, eyes pinned to the door.
My breath snagged and held. I shoved myself as far under the console as I could. Blood leaked from my leg; they'd be able to track it soon.
Glass crunched under their boots. I heard their long, tight breaths. The floor's cold bit into the wound, but I didn't move.
White cones of flashlights swept the tiles in time with their muzzles. That first darkness was gone. Cordite and smoke burned my nose, and the jingle of kit told me they were armed to the teeth.
The red-clad man reached the side of my desk. I held my breath and waited. He dipped, slowly, aiming his gun under the table—
I shot out from beneath it, rolled, and drove my foot into his gut. He slammed back onto a lab bench.
Panting, I pushed up to a crouch to grab his weapon, but another guard sprinted in. Before I could stand, he hooked an arm around my waist, hauled me up, and smashed me to the floor.
For a heartbeat, the world blinked out. Air shattered in my chest; blackness crowded my vision. Wheezing, I clawed at my ribs, begging my lungs to work. Two tall, young guards stalked up, fury in their faces, and yanked me off the tiles by my arms.
All at once, the lights flared on. I squinted around. The vents hummed back to life.
Ashur hadn't made it. No—I hadn't.
Damn it. Damn it. Damnit.