Page 124 of Wilde and Deadly

Tessa followed in the middle of the group, exactly where she should be. She kept one hand tight on Bridger’s shoulder, using him as a guide, her other hand clutching the strap of her med bag, ready to move the second she was needed. She wasn’t slow—she knew how to keep pace, how to stay small and out of the way—but she wasn’t a fighter.

That’s why Bridger stayed close, his head on a swivel, eyes tracking every shadow. And why Weston was right behind her, moving like a man expecting a fight. His rifle was steady in his hands, his steps light and controlled, but there was a sharpness to him—coiled tension beneath all that calm. Every few strides, he adjusted his grip, fingers flexing around the weapon, already measuring distance, angles, preparing for whatever was waiting for them in the dark.

Cade and Dominic held the rear, silent and steady. Davey couldn’t see their faces without turning, but he could hear them—the controlled rhythm of their footfalls, the soft shuffle of movement as they adjusted their positions, always covering the gaps.

They didn’t need orders.

They knew their job.

And on comms—Elliot was in the van at the maintenance tunnel’s entrance. He was their eyes in the sky, piloting their drone, monitoring every possible angle aboveground. Daphne was back at HQ, watching their movements in real time and feeding them intel.

It should’ve felt like a full force. A team with every gap covered, every angle secured.

So why did Davey’s gut keep twisting?

Because tonight had the makings of something bad.

His earpiece crackled, and Elliot’s voice came through, clipped and annoyed: “Talk to me.”

“You still in the van?”

“Where else would I be? Oh right. In there, where all the action is—except you benched me.”

Davey exhaled sharply, already regretting this conversation. “You were poisoned two days ago.”

“Yeah, and yet here I am, still capable of basic motor function.”

“We need someone running point,” he said, cutting off any argument. “You’re it. And we need eyes—get the drone in the air.”

A pause. Then Elliot let out a dry, unimpressed laugh. “You realize you’re underground, right? Or did the smell of piss and despair down there get to your brain?”

Davey sighed. “If Brody gets aboveground, I want to know about it before he ghosts us.”

Silence. Then a grudging, “Yeah, okay.”

Elliot was pissed, but he also understood the necessity of strategy. Someone had to monitor surveillance, track movement, and coordinate reinforcements on the ground. They were already operating with one hand tied behind their backs and couldn’t afford to go in blind.

Davey immediately lifted a hand, signaling for everyone to hold. The team froze, instinct taking over, shifting into firing positions.

The tunnel stretched behind them, wide enough to fit an old subway track—one that hadn’t seen a train in decades. Through the grainy green glow of his NVGs, the space was all jagged stone, crumbling walls, and rusted steel. The air was thick with damp and dust, every inhale laced with the scent of rot and stagnant water.

Then—movement.

A figure moving fast.

Sullivan.

Davey’s chest tightened. “Stand down. It’s Sully.”

Fucking Sullivan.

He wasn’t supposed to be here alone.

Hell, he wasn’t supposed to be here at all.

But of course he was.

Sullivan was on them in a matter of heartbeats, moving too fast, rifle slung across his chest, his gaze locked straight ahead. He wasn’t even looking at them as he powered down the tracks, his strides unshaken, his focus fixed on whatever was waiting ahead.

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