Page 32 of The Foreman
“Problem?”
“System hiccup. Might’ve triggered a silent flag.”
Trace’s gut clenched. “That’s it. We’re moving. Grab the drive.”
She yanked it free, shoved it into her pocket, and they slipped into the hall. The corridor narrowed around them, shadows thick, a red glow pulsing above the far exit like a predator’s eye snapping open. Motion sensors live. Every step forward would be noticed.
“Trace,” she whispered.
“I see it. We’ve been burned.” The word scraped like old failure. Protect. Do not possess. The rule he’d lived by ground against the pounding in his chest. Love blurred lines, and blurred lines got people killed.
Boots hammered the stairwell, shouts rising sharp and urgent, closing fast. Trace shoved Macy forward, his command cutting through the chaos. “South corridor. Move now.”
They sprinted, weaving through cubicles and empty labs. She pointed left, and he trusted her without pause, their strides syncing, breath harsh in tandem. At a badge reader, her palm stayed steady, hacking fast even with pursuit at their heels.
The door hissed open, and they slipped inside a dark prototype lab. Shrouded equipment crouched under tarps, edges fluttering like restless ghosts. Trace swept the room, weapon ready, instincts razor sharp. Whatever past haunted Macy here, it wasn’t his battle to fight. His job was to keep her alive long enough to outrun it.
“They’ll sweep,” Trace said.
“Then we don’t be here when they do.” Macy darted to a rear panel and popped another latch. “Maintenance tunnel. Leads to the garage.”
He steadied Macy as she slipped through, then crawled in after her, sealing the panel with a muted thud that left them buried in shadow. The crawlspace reeked of dust, metal, and the acrid bite of coolant, the air thick enough to burn the back of his throat. His shoulders scraped the narrow tunnel, every inch a reminder that there was no turning back. Ahead, Macy wriggledforward with determined urgency, her breath ragged, her voice drifting back through the dark like a lifeline strung taut between them.
“See? Brains and muscle. We make a good team.”
“Stay sharp.”
“I am.”
“Macy, focus.”
She gave a quick nod, tension replacing any trace of humor.
The tunnel spat them into a dim garage bay that smelled of oil and old rubber, the concrete echoing every breath. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, throwing jagged shadows across stacked crates. Two guards lingered near the far door, rifles slung lazily across their chests, bored but dangerous.
Trace froze, his body tight with readiness, Glock already up as his gaze tracked their movements. His voice was low, a command edged with danger. “We need a distraction.”
Macy’s eyes gleamed with reckless confidence, her lips curving into a wicked grin. “I’ve got one. Trust me, cowboy—this is going to be fun.”
She yanked a smoke canister from her pack, thumbed the pin, and sent it spinning across the concrete. It hissed violently, belching thick gray fog that billowed upward in choking waves, swallowing the bay in seconds. The guards cursed, their rifles swinging as they stumbled blind through the sudden murk. Trace moved like a predator through the haze, Glock steady in his grip, his steps silent and precise as he slid closer to the guards, using the smoke as cover rather than firing.
Trace struck fast and silent. He slammed an elbow into the first guard’s temple, dropping him into the haze before the man could breathe a warning. The second swung his rifle up, but Trace caught the barrel, wrenched it sideways, and drove his fist hard into the man’s gut. Macy was there in a flash, kicking his legs out from under him. The guard crumpled with a grunt,choking on the smoke as Trace cuffed him across the jaw, leaving both men unconscious and swallowed by the fog.
Trace grabbed Macy's hand and sprinted for the exit, lungs burning, the taste of smoke still coating their tongues. The door banged open and cool night air hit them like a slap, sharp and bracing after the suffocating garage. Behind them, alarms wailed in a shrill chorus, no longer silent warnings but a full-throated roar that promised pursuit.
Trace brought his Glock up instinctively, scanning the shadows as he keyed comms with a growl. “Hawke, extraction, now.”
“Two blocks east,” Hawke replied. “Move fast. We'll meet you in the middle. You’ve got pursuit.”
Their boots hammered the asphalt, the sharp crack of pursuit echoing behind them like a pack of wolves closing in. Macy matched his stride, chest heaving, her eyes blazing with adrenaline that lit her from the inside. It wasn’t fear that drove her, it was exhilaration, a reckless thrill that turned every pounding heartbeat into a challenge.
“You enjoying this?” he asked between breaths.
“Maybe a little.”
“Reckless woman.”
“Your reckless woman.”
