Page 70 of Sacrifice

There’s a tension in the air, thick and sharp as the knives we carry. We’re a storm rolling across the barren landscape, silent and deadly, ready to unleash chaos on the Mojave lab. This is it—the moment when all our plans either come together or fall apart.

Luka sits beside me, his silence a weighty presence. His weapons gleam as he runs a whetstone along their edges, the sound a whisper of what’s to come. I watch him from the corner of my eye, see the way his jaw tightens with each stroke, how the shadows play over his features, deepening the hollows and lines etched by a life too full of pain.

“Ready to face Malik?” I ask, breaking the silence between us.

He pauses mid-sharpen, eyes lifting to meet mine. There’s a fire there that wasn’t there before, a burning need for retribution that mirrors my own. “More than ready,” he says, voice steady as the blade in his hand. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

“Good. We take him down, we take down the lab. No more experiments, no more pain.” My grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. “No more playing gods with people’s lives.”

“Damn straight,” Luka mutters, returning to his task. The steel sings softly, an anthem of vengeance.

The Mojave Lab looms ahead, a monolith of concrete and steel squatting in the desert. It’s no wonder it was so hard to find; it blends in with the shifting sand, covered in tarps and camo paint. I kill the headlights as we close in, the convoy behind us following suit. We’re ghosts now, moving through the night toward our reckoning.

“Teams,” I bark out over the comms. “Split off. Remember your roles.”

The vehicles veer apart, each faction disappearing into the darkness. Rook gives me a nod from his position behind us, a silent promise that his expertise with explosives will crack this fortress open when the time comes. I trust him to do just that.

We park a safe distance away, and I step out, boots crunching on gravel. The air is sharp with the scent of sagebrush and the electric charge of imminent violence. Luka joins me, weapons strapped and eyes scanning the perimeter. He’s a coiled spring, lethal intent wrapped in flesh and bone.

“Oberon,” I say into my earpiece, now on a secure line. “Coordinate with Inari. Make sure Vance is extracted without a hitch.”

“Copy that,” Oberon’s voice crackles back, calm and controlled. “Inari’s prepped and ready. The Bluestockings are with her.”

“Good.” I glance at Luka again. “Main assault, that’s us. We punch through, we pave the way. No hesitation, no mercy.

“Never any,” he replies, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a grim smile.

The Bluestockings move ahead, Isla among them. They’re shadows slipping through the night, barely a rustle of fabric to betray their presence. Within moments, they’re at the security panel, and I watch Isla’s hands dance over the wires with a deftness that speaks of countless hours spent mastering her craft. The security systems go dark one by one, their lights winking out like stars extinguished by an unseen hand.

“Perimeter is down,” Isla whispers into her mic, her voice all business.

“Proceed,” I command, my heart thumping in my chest—not from fear, but anticipation. This is the moment we’ve trained for, bled for.

We advance, our group a tight formation behind Luka and me. We breach the outer wall without a sound, boots silent on the cold concrete. Ahead, the Mojave lab waits, oblivious to the storm about to break upon it.

Behind us, the Angels and the Oasis grunts fall into place with military precision, forming a ring of steel and sinew. Their presence is both a comfort and a reminder—betrayal is a bullet you never see coming.

“Keep it tight,” I hear Vance’s voice rumble over the comms, his authority unquestioned even here. “No one in or out. We own this night.”

The sterile halls of the Mojave lab stretch before us, a chilling echo of the facility on New Eden. I remember the screams that soaked into those walls, the scent of fear and bitter chemicals. My jaw clenches at the memory, my resolve steeling with every step we take.

As expected, the initial resistance is light—guards who barely have time to reach for their weapons before they’re taken down. Their bodies hit the floor with dull thuds, quickly dragged out of sight by our rearguard.

“Keep moving,” I order, my voice low. “We’ll hit heavier resistance the deeper we go.”

Luka nods, his blades glinting in the dim light. There’s no joy in his movements, only grim determination. He’s a man haunted by his past, seeking redemption through each enemy he takes down.

The further we venture into the lab, the more security we encounter. But nothing slows us down. Each confrontation ends as swiftly as it begins, a testament to our training and sheer willpower.

Then we find them—the cells. They line the corridor, a macabre display of glass and metal. Inside, alphas and omegas stare back at us, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope.

“Bluestockings, you’re up,” I say into the mic, stepping aside as Isla and her team move forward.

They work with practiced ease, unlocking cells and shepherding the shaky prisoners out. Each rescue is a victory, however small, and it lights a fire in our bellies.

“Thank you,” a frail omega murmurs as Isla helps her to her feet. The gratitude in the omega’s eyes is enough to remind me why we fight.

“Stay strong,” Isla replies, her tone gentle but firm. “You’re safe now.”

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