Chapter 176: 176
01:47 a.m.Sector 9 — Maintenance Access Corridor
Winter’s boots made no sound as they slid along the narrow lip of the steel service walkway, eyes flickering between the thermal readout and the digital timer on his wrist. 01:47. Right on time.
Bale had outdone himself, getting all the equipment and information they needed in such a short period.
The low hum of the city’s sleeping heart vibrated beneath their feet — power conduits and pneumatic seals pulsing like blood through arteries.
Richard crouched beside him, chewing faintly on a piece of mint gum. "You ever get the feeling we’re the bait instead of the trap?"
Winter didn’t look up. "Every damn time."
The tunnel below flickered red-orange on thermal — five heat signatures, four shaped like military-grade vehicles, one oversized and slow. Escort pattern. The handler’s transport, probably. Two gun trucks at the front and rear, with the heavy hauler buried in the center.
Winter narrowed his eyes. "Something’s off."
Richard leaned in, peering at the feed. "What?"
"Center’s not the lead. That third vehicle—" he tapped it on his tablet screen, "—that’s where we confirmed the handler. Seventeen should be with him."
Richard frowned. "So why is the lead vehicle hotter than the rest?"
Winter exhaled sharply. "I don’t know."
01:53 a.m.Tunnel Exit – Southeast Quadrant
Marcus’s voice crackled in over comms. "Exit’s clean. No patrols, no dogs. Not even a drone ping. It’s too clear."
Up in the old backlot power station, Ima’s voice was clipped and cold. "Signal jamming sequence primed. Six-minute window once initiated."
Next to him, Harlow swiped through diagnostics. "Heat’s spiking above you."
Winter’s gut twisted.
He turned to Richard. "Move. Breach the grate."
They dropped silently, cutting through the mesh floor and sliding into the darkened corridor below. One step. Another. Silence swallowing them whole. Richard set the charges on the nav plates of the rear escort truck — small, elegant magnetic pulses that would confuse the vehicle’s sensors and force an emergency brake.
Winter knelt at the second escort vehicle’s axle. Static began fizzing in his earpiece.
Ima: "Signal jammer live."
Countdown: 6:00... 5:59... 5:58...
It was going too smoothly.
The convoy didn’t react. No comms. No maneuvering. The driver didn’t blink when the escort vehicle lights began to flicker. Nothing.
Winter’s skin crawled.
"This is wrong," he muttered. "They’re not reacting."
Richard turned, half-crouched behind cover. "Maybe they’re cocky."
"No. It’s not that. They know."
5:31... 5:30...
Winter’s breath caught as a memory slammed back into him — Dain’s voice clipped and low over briefing room coffee.
"Do not speak to it. Don’t even try. It won’t understand. Or worse — it will."
"Marcus," Winter whispered, "double check your quadrant. Anything thermal."
Pause. Then—
"...Hold. Multiple hot sigs. I’ve got—wait. Shit. They’re not ours."
5:12...
Harlow’s voice cracked through: "Thermals above—something is watching the convoy—"
Static.
Then Nile’s voice, sharp and panicked: "Incoming! Not just us! Third party’s hitting the line—"
A soft thump. No explosion — dispersal.
Winter’s nose burned. Something cloying and chemical tainted the air.
"Move!"
Gunfire erupted before the echo of Nile’s shout died.
Figures — wrong silhouettes, too fast, gear all matte-black and unfamiliar — dropped in with precision. One escort truck flipped sideways from a shaped charge. Smoke curled like ink tendrils in the confined space. Muzzle flashes flared in the dark like blinking stars.
Winter and Richard returned fire, tight, controlled bursts. One enemy dropped. Another barely flinched as a round pinged off his armour.
Richard swore. "Non-standard armor. These aren’t off-the-rack mercs—"
"Private contractors," Winter spat. "But who’s?"
The convoy was in chaos. The middle transport’s back doors were pried open by cutters. Screams — brief, choked — and then a blur of motion.
The handler was yanked out, kicking.
But there was no sign of Seventeen.
4:09...
Winter’s comm chirped. Ima, breathless: "We lost the signal trace. Something’s piggybacking the jammer—hijacking it."
Harlow cut in, voice strained: "Found an old sub-access tunnel. Something’s in here."
A pause.
A soft voice echoed, distorted but unmistakable: "Are you lost?"
Winter froze.
That was Richard’s voice.
"Ima. What was that?"
Ima whispered, barely audible: "It’s mimicking us."
3:33...
A second voice joined the first. Not distorted now. Human. Real.
"So many of you tonight."
Winter stiffened.
It wasn’t in the convoy.
Seventeen wasn’t a hostage. It wasn’t restrained.
It had watched the convoy from above. Hidden. Waiting.
He tapped his comm. "Abort. Everyone fall back. Sewer exit. Now."
"Negative," Richard snapped. "I’m close to the handler. We need him alive."
"Rich—!"
"Go."
Winter turned. The firelight flickered off the bloody wall behind them. He sprinted.
Somewhere above, laughter echoed.
Meanwhile...
Marcus stared down the barrel of a matte-black rifle. The soldier didn’t wear insignia. His visor glowed faintly blue.
Marcus raised his hands, slowly. "I’m not part of the convoy. You’ve got the wrong—"
The man slammed the butt of the rifle into his temple.
****
Backlot Power Room
Harlow clutched his side, blood leaking between his fingers. "It—moved too fast. I didn’t even see—"
Ima dragged him behind a column, eyes wide. "That wasn’t training. That was instinct. It dodged point-blank fire."
Footsteps echoed.
Not rushed. Measured.
A figure approached — guard’s uniform too neat, too clean. Wrong color badge. A smile that didn’t belong on a teenager’s face.
Short-cropped black hair, pale face splattered with someone else’s blood. Cold gray eyes. And too young.
Seventeen.
"Which one of you screamed?" it asked.
Ima raised her gun.
Seventeen’s head tilted. "Don’t," it whispered.
And it vanished — one blink and it was behind them.
*****
02:17 a.m.
Winter burst through the service grate. His lungs burned, sweat stinging his eyes. Ahead, the sewer exit hatch gleamed under the emergency lights.
Harlow and Ima were there, bloodied and half-dragging each other.
"No sign of Nile," Ima gasped.
"Marcus?"
"Gone," she choked. "Taken."
Winter’s heart pounded. "Richard—?"
"Still inside."
"fuck, how did this happen?"
Tunnel Interior
Richard found the handler.
Or what was left of him?
The throat was carved open, blood soaking the inside of the transport cab. Something had been scratched into the skin.
Do not speak to it.
He staggered back.
The wall to his left gleamed faintly.
A dark reflection — not his.
Eyes. Watching.
He turned.
Nothing.
The tunnel collapsed behind him.
*****
02:30 a.m.
Only three reached the rendezvous: Winter, Ima, and Harlow.
The debrief was a graveyard.
The metal door hissed shut behind them, locking with a pneumatic sigh.
Winter stepped into the debriefing room like a ghost. His boots tracked dried blood across the concrete floor, but no one stopped him. No one said a word.
Ima came in behind, shoulders hunched, Harlow half-slumped against her, arm wrapped in a pressure sleeve. His jacket was soaked through from the shoulder down, and every third step he winced.
The room wasn’t a room. It was a box. Gray walls, harsh white lights overhead, and a two-way glass pane that let Command watch without being seen. A long table in the middle. Chairs that no one sat in.
Bale wasn’t there. Just a tablet set at the table’s end, already recording. Red light blinking. Audio feed live.
Winter stopped a foot from it. He didn’t sit.
He didn’t take his eyes off the blinking light.
"Begin debrief."
The tablet voice was synthetic, flat. It always was.
"Winter, callsign Theta-3," he began, his voice hoarse, raw from adrenaline and the taste of blood. "Operation Blackvein commenced at 01:47 hours. Convoy intercepted en route to Sector 9 maintenance junction. Initial contact successful. Charges planted on escort nav systems. Handler confirmed in vehicle three, center. Repeat: center, not lead or tail."
He paused. His brow furrowed. A smear of ash and soot was drying across his cheekbone.
"Something was wrong from the start. No course corrections. No chatter anomalies. Too clean. We breached the tunnel corridor. No resistance. No deviation. Like they wanted us there."
Harlow made a sound like he wanted to laugh and vomit at the same time. Ima pressed a hand to his chest.
Winter continued, voice tightening.
"Marcus reported tunnel exit clear. Thermal spiked above us — abnormal heat signatures. At 01:59, Nile confirmed multiple hostiles entering airspace. Unmarked units. Silent weapons, coordinated entry. They hit before we could adjust. We were not the only intercept."
02:33 a.m.
"Unknown faction, black-clad, non-regulation gear. Private, possibly merc. Severed vehicle locks, neutralized rear escort. Grabbed the handler."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Richard and I moved to engage. Richard was hit — right side, above the kidney. He kept moving. Marcus lost visual. Signal jam began glitching. Possible override. Nile’s comms went dark shortly after."
Ima shifted, voice rough as she stepped forward.
"Ima, Delta-7. Harlow and I were tracing the jammer spikes when we found a sub-access point. Looked dormant. We heard a voice. Richard’s voice. Said, ’Are you lost?’"
She swallowed. Her mouth was dry.
"It wasn’t him. It was Seventeen. Wearing a guard uniform. No cuffs. No collar. Just standing there, like it walked out of a dream. Watching us."
Winter didn’t blink.
"It wasn’t in the convoy."
Ima nodded slowly. "It was watching the convoy."
02:34 a.m.
Harlow grunted through clenched teeth.
"It smiled. Told us there were so many of us tonight."
Then, silence. The three of them stood there, backs straight despite the blood and exhaustion.
"I fired," Ima said. "Didn’t matter. It moved before I pulled the trigger. Harlow got clipped. I pulled him out."
Winter picked it up.
"I called abort. Ordered fallback to sewer route. Richard refused. Went after the handler. I shouted. He didn’t respond."
He paused again. Blinked. The smallest fracture.
"I ran."
The word hung in the air like smoke.
02:36 a.m.
"Harlow and Ima reached quarantine access. Marcus was en route to exit when his signal vanished. No confirmation if he was taken or terminated. Nile is radio-silent. Unknown status."
The tablet’s voice clicked again.
"Status of Seventeen?"
Winter stared at it. Then said, low:
"Unconfirmed. Not caged. Not compliant. Possible total breach."
"Casualties?"
"Richard—unknown. Last seen with the handler’s body. Handler confirmed dead. Neck mutilated. Carving—same phrase Dain warned us about."
Ima murmured it, barely audible:
"’Do not speak to it.’"
Winter didn’t look at her. He finished the thought.
"We believe the message was for us."
02:38 a.m.
The tablet beeped once.
"Additional findings?"
Winter turned his head for the first time, facing the mirror.
"Something else was on-site. The black-clads weren’t military. They weren’t with Seventeen. They didn’t shoot us. Just took the handler and ran. One of them—" he hesitated. "One of them recognized Marcus. We think he was captured."
"Do you believe this op was compromised?"
Winter’s voice dropped to a whisper.
"Yes."
"By whom?"
He didn’t answer.
The tablet clicked off. The red light stopped blinking.
02:40 a.m.
Harlow collapsed into a chair. He looked ten years older than he had an hour ago. Blood was starting to dry under his nails.
Ima leaned on the table, hands splayed.
"They knew we’d come. Not just the convoy. All of it. The access points. The fallback route. The signal window. Everything."
Winter still stood.
"They wanted us there."
Ima turned to him.
"You think Seventeen planned this?"
He didn’t answer right away. Then:
"No. I think someone planned this—who knows Seventeen. Who lets it out."
Harlow coughed. "Let it out? It was in uniform, Winter. That wasn’t escape. That was a fucking pass."
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