Chapter 9 · Drop Hot

"Move your ass, Mercer! Now!"

That wasn't a suggestion. Rook’s voice cracked like a whip, and her hand was already digging into my shoulder, shoving me toward the back exit of the clinic. Behind us, the front doors didn't just open—they disintegrated. A sonic breach. The sound hit me like a physical blow, rattling my teeth and sending a spray of shattered plexiglass across the floor.

"I'm moving!" I snarled, stumbling as my boots skidded on a patch of spilled antiseptic.

I could hear them. Heavy. Metallic. The rhythmic thud of mag-boots hitting the linoleum. Not just a couple of corporate goons—this was a full-scale kill-team.

"The vents?" I asked, glancing at the ceiling.

"Too small," Rook snapped. She didn't let go of me. Her grip was tight, her fingers pressing into the muscle of my arm. I could feel the heat radiating off her, the frantic pulse in her wrist where it pressed against my skin. "The service chute. It’s the only way out that doesn't end with a bullet in the brain."

"The chute? You're joking. That's a straight drop to the sump," I said, but I followed her anyway. I didn't have a choice.