I froze at the sight: he'd strapped the dead agents around himself as a shield, buckled to his body with their belts. The guard beside me shrieked and snapped his rifle up, firing at Ashur…
But Ashur snapped the elevator's ceiling hatch up like a shield and raised it in front of his face. At the same time, he hurled his gun—apparently out of rounds—straight at the guard.
I scrambled up, ignoring the blaze in my leg, clawed at the guard's ankle, and yanked him down. I slammed his head to the floor; his own helmet did the rest and knocked him out cold.
Clutching my lower back, I turned toward Ashur. He unbuckled the corpses he'd strapped around himself and let them spill to the tiles; they'd been hit so many times they were barely recognizable.
Stunned, I planted my palms on the cold flooring and pushed into a shaky half-crouch. The only sound was his heavy footfalls. I forced my head toward him. My hair was pasted to my forehead; through the curtain of damp strands, I stared up at him.
"So this is… how you fight," I rasped.
One brow tipped up. Those cold, emptied-out eyes locked on mine. He set his boot on the throat of a guard who was somehow still breathing; the man was fumbling for a fallen pistol with a bloody hand. Ashur's mouth curved in a wintry smile and he pressed down—slow. A muted crack, and the neck gave. The half-lidded eyes stayed fixed on the gun.
I could only stare.
Lifting his boot, Ashur murmured in that rough, uncanny voice, "You haven't seen me fight yet… little butterfly."
I swallowed hard; bile tasted of blood.
"We made it past this floor," I whispered. "What about the rest?" I glanced at my torn leg and hissed. "Every level the elevator stops on, there'll be a firing squad waiting… and they'll probably send units up the stairs too."
He tipped his chin at me—no fear, no hurry. A face carved from stone.
He met my eyes and said, cool and mocking, "Thought you were here to b…break me out. Looks like I'm the one s…saving you."
I shot him a look. Wrestling the belt tighter around my thigh, I growled through clenched teeth, "Someone else knew the escape plan—he's dead."
Ah, Steven… I needed you. With you, every war felt easier.
Ashur was stripping ammo off the dead. I stared at the bodies until his rasp scraped over my nerves: "Huh. The b…blond kid? He screamed 'plant.' I'm shocked the Rose sent a rookie in."
My jaw ached from grinding. I forced myself upright. "He was a pro."
Ashur turned, eyes cutting to the end of the hall. I followed his gaze to the digital wall clock. Our time was bleeding out. While he slammed a mag home, he said, flat, "S…sure he was. Pro like you."
Then he skimmed a mocking glance up and down me. Heat flared under my skin—this was not the moment for jabs.
I jabbed a finger at the elevator. "Bring the doctor. This corridor has security shields—we can trigger them with him. His private room's on this floor. We can ping the Tailor, get her people ready."
He pivoted toward the lift. I couldn't believe he didn't run—strolling like he was on the Champs-Élysées.
"Could you go faster?" I snapped.
He waded through the corpses, hauled the half-conscious doctor—looked like a round had clipped his arm. "I conserve energy so I don't end up u…useless. Like y…you." Carrying the man toward the end-of-hall scanner, he tossed back, "Waiting on an invitation, p…princess?"
I clenched my fists and limped after him, my dragging foot screeching along the floor, each step another knife.
He pinned the doctor in front of the wall-mounted reader. I gripped my ruined leg and glared. I wanted to put a bullet between that monster's eyes—too bad my mission was freeing him.
Ashur squeezed the doctor's neck at just the right angle; the man stirred, groaning, sweat slicking his bloody face. I stared at the clock. They'd be coming up the emergency stairs—those doors only opened in crises, and this was one. Riot teams would try to cut us off before we reached another level.
"Move," I barked.
Unbothered, Ashur forced the doctor's face to the scanner, snatched Patrick's admin card from my hand, and swiped it. The doctor blinked, tried to twist away, but Ashur had his arms wrenched behind him—he couldn't twitch an inch.
"It's not working." Panic pinched my voice. The mid-corridor glass partitions were still open. Footsteps pounded from the far end. They'd blown the stairwell doors—exactly what I'd feared.
Ashur pried the doctor's eyelids wider. The scanner finally chimed—and as red alarm lights washed the hall, the glass doors slid together from both sides. Their grinding squeal was drowned out by the siren.
Please let them be bulletproof, I prayed. Buy us a few seconds.
If not, we were dying right here.