Page 48 of Victorious: Part 3
I don’t have an answer, only the truth that hits us like a freight train.
This place is hemorrhaging. Dying. And it’s trying to take us, and the drugged women with it.
Water surges through the corridor like a tidal wave uncoiling. It’s not just rising, it’s devouring. Blood smears vanish under the torrent. Drug packets float like bloated corpses. The bodies of guards we took down are dragged by the current, their limbs knocking against walls.
And the women,Christ, the women.
Their screams echo as cold water soaks through tattered clothes, their panic rising with the flood.
We’re not in a fight anymore.
We’re in a race against time.
And we’re still buried beneath the city.
I meet Bayou’s eyes. We don’t speak. We don’t have to.
We wade, as fast as we can, through the water.
“Ladder. Northwest,” Raid pants. “Storm drain. Three blocks out.”
“Get them movin’,” Hurricane orders. “Everyone cover the evac. I’ll stay back with the stragglers, make sure they get out.”
I catch his arm, my eyes meeting his. “Pres, keep an eye out. There are still Cartel and birds in here. Watch your six.”
He claps my shoulder, his eyes focused on me, a serious expression crossing his face. “We get these women out. No matter what, we get them home. Understand me, VP?” He’s telling me something, but I’m not understanding, and I don’t have time to figure it out as he shoves me toward the rest of our brothers to usher the women out.
An unsettled churn coils in my gut, thick and acidic, as I watch Hurricane vanish down the flooding corridor. His broad frame disappears into the steam and flickering lights, his voice lost in the roar of rushing water and rising panic.
He’s going back for more women…
Because of course he is.
That’s who he is.
The kind of man who runs toward the fire when everyone else flees.
But I can’t follow him.
I want to scream for him to stay, to let someone else take the risk, to letmetake it.
For him to stay here and give out orders.
But there’s no time.
No room to be selfish or for fear.
I have to focus.
I have to lead when Hurricane can’t.
Because we need to get these women out.
Now.
The water is up to our waists, churning with sludge, blood, and debris. It claws at us with every step, thick as molasses, coldas betrayal. The women scream, their voices hoarse with panic, their movements frantic and jagged. Some are climbing onto overturned crates and shelving units to stay above the rising flood. Others are clawing at one another, teeth chattering, eyes wild, each desperate to be the next lifted to safety. Their trauma is layered, fresh terror buried beneath days, weeks, months of captivity, and the chemical haze they have been subjected to.
Hoodoo stumbles past me, a woman draped over each shoulder like dead weight. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. Just keeps pushing forward, gritting his teeth as one of them sobs into his neck.
