Page 81 of Rescuing Rebel

Kaufman’s eyes narrow, watching intently as Jeb and Stitch work to counter the cyber assault.

The room becomes a hive of activity as Stitch and Jeb contain the attack. No words are wasted; they know the drill and perform flawlessly beneath Kaufman’s critical eye.

Finally, the attack slows to a trickle and then stops entirely. The oppressive tension in the room eases as we verify all systems are secure once more.

“Nice work.” Our presence here hinges on these demonstrations of our usefulness. As long as Mitzy keeps the attacks coming, our sham can continue. “Let’s tighten up those firewalls,” I direct my team.

Mouths set in determined lines, Stitch and Jeb turn back to their keyboards.

The alarms go silent. Kaufman turns to me with an appraising look. “Well done.”

“We’re nowhere near done.” Stitch spins to face Kaufman. “Dealing with an attack isn’t what you want. We’re here to prevent them from ever reaching your system, and your system is so messed up we’re relegated to going to the base code and fixing it line by line. It’s going to take time.”

Once again, Kaufman completely ignores Stitch. He clasps my shoulder firmly. “It seems I was wise to enlist your team’s services.”

After Kaufman departs, I exchange subtle nods with my team. Mitzy’s test went perfectly. She keeps our charade alive while we chip away at Kaufman’s inner sanctum.

I leave my teammates to their jobs and wander Haven’s halls. Memories of the horrors we unearthed play before my eyes like a grotesque slideshow in my mind. The holding cells, the chains on the walls, the empty sterile basins, and the operating room. Images of the women, their hollow eyes, and how they cowered and knelt before Kaufman.

Sometimes, this job feels never-ending. We take down one monster, and ten more pop up in its place. It’s hard not to feel our purpose is futile on days like today.

Shouting erupts from behind a closed door. There’s the unmistakable sound of an open-handed slap. Red creeps into my vision, hands reflexively clenching, nails digging into my palms because I know the owner of that voice.

Kaufman’s tirade continues, vitriolic and crude, his voice a whip that lashes and scars. Then comes a thud and a pained cry in another voice I know too well—Rebel.

In an instant, every protective instinct within me roars to life, a primal urge that drowns out all reason. I have to stop myself from kicking down the door and tearing the monster limb from limb, but Rebel would never forgive me for exposing us both.

I find myself frozen outside the door, every muscle tensed, ears straining to catch every word of Kaufman’s tirade. His voice is a poisoned dagger, laced with fury and contempt, slashing through the air ruthlessly.

“What is this pathetic display?” he screams, his voice cracking with rage. “These new Angels are useless, utterly worthless. They’re weak, pitiful, and defiant. You promised they’d be ready, and this is what you bring me?”

I can almost see him now, eyes blazing, face contorted with anger, standing over Rebel, a predator ready to strike. The thought of him hurting her, of his hands on her, twists my gut, but I force myself to remain still, to listen.

Rebel’s voice is softer and measured, starkly contrasting Kaufman’s fury. I can sense the fear in her voice and the effort it takes for her to maintain her composure.

“I’m doing everything I can.” Her voice trembles ever so slightly. “They need more time. They’re still adapting and learning. Please, give me a chance to—”

“No more chances!” Kaufman roars, cutting her off. “I have clients stacking up, eager to taste this new offering, and you’re failing me. Failing me at every turn.”

There’s a pause, the silence heavy. Suffocating. I can almost feel Rebel’s desperation and struggle to find the words to appease the monster before her.

“I’ll fix it,” she finally whispers, her voice full of resolve yet laced with vulnerability. “I’ll make them ready. Just give me a little more time, please.”

Time. The word echoes in my mind, a cruel reminder of our own desperate race against the clock. Time is running out for all of us, and every second counts.

Kaufman’s response is a low growl, a threat veiled in a promise. “You have one week. One week to make them into Angels or face the consequences.”

“That’s not enough—”

“One week.” His words are final.

My heart pounds in my chest as Kaufman’s heavy step nears the door.

In a flash, I’m around the corner, hidden in a shadowy recess, my back pressed against the cold wall. I hold my breath, listening as the door creaks open, followed by the muted rustle of Kaufman’s expensive suit as he exits the room.

His anger is a wild thing, a force that leaves destruction in its wake. I peek around the corner, watching as he retreats down the hall, his fury a palpable force that seems to echo off the walls.

When he’s out of sight, I move.

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