Page 31 of Oath
“Confirm detonation,” Alphabet’s voice cracked through my earpiece, distorted by the sudden interference.
“Confirmed,” I muttered, brushing dirt off my vest and pushing forward. “Party favors worked.”
“Thermal’s useless,” he replied. “They’re blind. All they’re getting is heat bloom. You’ve got sixty seconds max before they fan out.”
I could already hear the muffled scuffle of boots behind me. Bones was in motion. Always first in, last out. Voodoo was just ahead, dragging O’Rourke, who was coughing from smoke or panic—maybe both.
“Keep moving,” Bones said, his voice quiet but sharp. “This way splits. I’ll take the right. Loop back and converge two blocks east.”
“What about our tail?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, “I’ll handle it.”
I didn’t like it—but I didn’t argue.
Voodoo didn’t either. Just kept O’Rourke moving.
We pushed down the left tunnel, the heat from the blast bleeding through the earth above us like sweat through skin. Dirt shifted underfoot. My bag was heavy with what we didn’t get a chance to use—and what no one behind us could be allowed to find.
Twenty meters in, we hit the first grate. I crouched, yanked a pry tool from my belt, and wrenched it free with a sharp metallic groan.
Alphabet was back in my ear.
“They’re breaching. Entering from the front. Sending drones to sweep. No heat signatures, but they’ve got air sniffers. You need distance.”
“They see Bones?”
A pause.“Not yet.”
That was the answer I needed.
Voodoo dropped into the storm drain below us, boots splashing in runoff and old rainwater. I followed, then reached up and pulled the grate back into place.
Metal scraped over metal. Sealed again.
O’Rourke stumbled, slipping on the wet concrete. Voodoo caught him, none too gently.
“You should’ve walked away,” Voodoo muttered, voice quiet but dangerous.
“I tried,” O’Rourke wheezed. “You think you’re the only one with ghosts?”
“I buried mine,” Voodoo said. “Looks like yours came back with friends.”
We moved fast now, under the street, guided by old maps and old instincts. Alphabet fed us location markers from the drone uplink. Street cams were offline—fried by our EMP burst before the bar lit up.
Buttheywere still up there.
Moving. Coordinating. Hunting.
And not just for us.
“They’re not pulling out,” Alphabet warned. “They’re spreading. Staggered leapfrog. Room by room. Street by street.”
“That’s not a hit,” I muttered, glancing at Voodoo. “That’s a net.”
“Which means we’re not the only fish,” he said grimly. “They’re looking for the drive.”
