Jones’s blood turned cold. Compromised.
Thump—CRACK.
They commandeered the truck. Jones hotwired it as shrapnel pinged off the armor. The gate splintered under the vehicle’s weight, and they roared into the forest, the prison lights shrinking behind them like dying stars. Jones’s blood turned cold
“Damn,” Jones muttered, dragging the body into the shadow of a decommissioned radar dish. One stray body. That was all it took for a mission to spiral. He checked his wrist-comp. Nightshade’s signal was flickering from the east wing, second floor.
“I can run.”
“Change of plans,” he said, pointing to a fuel truck parked near the south wall. “We’re leaving loud.”
Inside, a pale woman in a gray jumpsuit looked up from the floor. Her eyes were hollow, but sharp. “Took you long enough,” she whispered. They commandeered the truck
Behind them, the Krasny Prison Facility burned—a single, silent monument to a mission that had gone sideways, but not under.