Page 52 of Victorious: Part 3
“C’mon, VP. I fucking hate it, but we gotta g-go,” Hoodoostates, his voice breaking at the end.
“Wait, there’s still more,” Grit roars, bursting into the corridor like a man possessed. His face streaked with grime and blood, his arm reaches out, cradling one woman while two more stumble in behind him, soaking and terrified. “Move,move,MOVE!”
I twist out of Hoodoo’s grasp just long enough to help hoist a trembling woman up to the base of the ladder. “Go! Grab the next one,” I yell, turning to see another appear in the water, guiding another two. One’s limping, the other barely conscious.
The ladder groans beneath the weight as Grit and Bayou pull woman after woman up to safety. My muscles scream with exhaustion, but I reach down again, hauling one last terrified girl into my arms when Hoodoo shoves her forward.
Hoodoo helps lift the last one. “That’s it. That’s everyone!”
“Thengo!” I scream, giving him a shove.
We scramble up the ladder like hell is on our heels because it is.
I twist one last time, desperate for a glimpse, and the sight almost cripples me. Hurricane, half-submerged, pinned, watching us ascend with a look that fucking breaks me open.
He lifts a hand, just once.
A goodbye.
A command.
A fucking legacy.
And the fucker smiles. “Tell Bayou he’s a pussy for me,” he calls out, loud and clear, his voice ragged but defiant.
Inhaling sharply, I dip my head at him, turn, feeling like an asshole for leaving him, and I make my way up the ladder.
The last man to emerge.
Bayou furrows his brows before checking back down the ladder. “Where’s Hurricane?” he snaps.
Hoodoo rushes for him, grabbing Bayou as I signal for us tostart leading the women away.
Bayou’s eyes widen, anger crossing his features. “No. No fucking way—” He breaks free from Hoodoo racing for the ladder when the earth shatters. The detonation doesn’t just sound, it rattles our very foundations. A thunderclap of fury ignites beneath us, so violent it feels like the planet cracked in half. A blinding flash turns the darkness into day. A wall of heat slams into our backs, knocking the breath from our lungs and sending water flying upward in a furious torrent.
The tunnel screams, concrete and steel tear like paper, shockwaves rippling up through the very bones of the building. Flames race along the earth, hungrily devouring everything in their path. I lurch forward as the ground beneath us gives way, and I stumble, rushing to find solid footing. My ears ring. My limbs go numb. The pressure feels like a fist around my skull.
The world tilts sideways.
Screams flood the air and then…
… darkness.
Water rushes past us, no longer rising, but draining. A smoking hole yawns where the ground used to be. It’s jagged and violent, edges blackened from the blast.
Beneath it, silence.
No movement.
No Hurricane.
Just the echo of a man’s final stand.
Fighting to catch my breath, with dust and grit in my eyes, I find my feet and glance around at the destruction. A gaping hole sits where the Cartel’s operation used to be.
Now a burial site for our president.
But above ground is our club, and the women we just saved.
