Page 25 of Reckless: Corruption

I close my eyes, seeing the facility’s patterns like lines of code. “Three entry points. Four security blind spots. One omega who’s either an ally or the most elaborate trap I’ve ever seen. And exactly six hours until shift change gives us our window.”

“And if she is a trap?” Theo asks.

“Then we spring it,” I answer. “Sometimes the best way through a trap is to let it snap.”

After all, that’s what they trained us for—to be the nightmare that other nightmares fear.

“Target the north entrance,” I instruct. “Camera blind spot extends twelve meters from the service door. Guard patrol leaves a four-second window.”

“Tight,” Jinx observes.

“But doable.” I pack my gear with mechanical precision. “Theo, status on our stress-smoking friend?”

“Left ten minutes ago. His security card is now in my apron pocket.” I can hear the slight smile in his voice. “Amazing what people will tell a sympathetic barista.”

We move like shadows, each position calculated to the second. But something feels off about the pattern now. Like we’re not the only ones counting seconds.

The service door opens before we reach it.

“You people have no appreciation for dramatic timing.” Our mystery omega leans against the doorframe, casually unwrapping a lollipop. “I had this whole thing planned. Very theatrical. Now I have to improvise.”

Four weapons train on her position. She doesn’t even blink.

“Boring,” she sighs, popping the candy in her mouth. “Also, six guards will round that corner in approximately twenty seconds, so maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere less exposed? I have candy. And intel. Not necessarily in that order of importance.”

No one moves. Twenty seconds tick by, but no guards appear.

“That was a test,” she announces, looking pleased with herself. “You passed. Kind of. Your trigger discipline is excellent, but your appreciation for theatrical timing needs work.”

“Inside,” Ryker orders, voice carrying lethal quiet. “Now.”

She leads us through a maze of maintenance corridors, each turn carefully calculated to avoid security cameras.

“The camera room is currently experiencing technical difficulties,” she informs us. “Apparently someone spilled whipped cream into the main console. Very unfortunate. Also, possibly staged.”

“Who are you?” I ask, though my analytical mind is already assembling the puzzle pieces.

My beta senses catalog the behavioral markers that alphas frequently miss: the recurring pattern that suggests obsessive-compulsive tendencies channeled into tactical advantage; the controlled chaos that indicates hypervigilance masked as casualness; the candy addiction that provides both sustenance and misdirection.

“Someone who appreciates good surveillance.” She produces a keycard, swiping us into what appears to be an abandoned office. “Your feral one’s work with piano wire was particularly inspiring. I took notes. Might try it at my next arranged marriage meeting.”

The room she led us to sits in a blind spot between security cameras, exactly seventy-three seconds from the nearest patrol route. The oleander scent that clings to her skin carries notes of chemical antiseptic beneath it—lab access, then. High-level clearance.

“You are exceptionally boring for a psycho squad,” she perches on a desk, producing an array of candy from her pockets, “we should discuss why daddy dearest is planning to inject your beta with an experimental virus in approximately—”she checks a Hello Kitty watch that probably costs more than most cars, “five hours and twenty-three minutes.”

Jinx’s growl fills the small space. “If they touch her?—”

“Oh, they’re going to do more than touch her.” Her smile holds no humor. “They’re going to try to rewrite her genetic code. Very ambitious. Probably fatal.” She looks up, eyes suddenly clear. “Unless, of course, someone were to help you get her out. Someone who knows exactly when and where they’re moving her. Someone who maybe has access to daddy’s special research notes.”

“You’re Sterling’s daughter,” Theo states, voice carrying dawning understanding.

My mind races through behavioral indicators I should have caught sooner. She plays unstable like I once played peacekeeper, every seemingly random choice serving a deeper purpose.

“Mona Sterling. Daddy’s little mistake. Professional pack-rejection specialist. Occasional agent of chaos.” She begins arranging candies on the desk in what looks disturbingly like facility blueprints, the pattern triggering memory—my mother laying out chess pieces, teaching me that sometimes the most dangerous player is the one everyone underestimates.

I watch her hands move with sniper’s focus, cataloging every micro-expression. She’s playing a deeper game, one that reminds me uncomfortably of old pack politics where every helper was a potential threat. But we’re beyond choosing perfect allies now. Sometimes survival means dancing with the devil who knows all the steps.

“Tell us everything,” Ryker demands.

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