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The rubble shifted behind us.
I stopped. Held up one fist.
Everyone froze. Cole had his rifle halfway to his shoulder. Leah was still wrapping someone's arm. The wind kicked up dust and the smell of burnt metal.
There it was again. A scrape. Then a sound that might've been a cough or a dying breath.
"Move," I said. "Now."
Cole didn't move. He was staring at the collapsed storefront to our left. Half the roof had caved in. Rebar stuck out like broken ribs.
"Boss," he said. "Someone's under there."
"Yeah. And Hammer's got drones circling every exit we know about. We don't have time."
"It's a person."
"It's always a person, Cole. Dead or dying. We can't carry them."
Leah stepped closer. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the rubble. Her jaw was tight.
"If they're alive—"
"They won't be in ten minutes," I said. "Neither will we if we don't move."
Another sound. Louder this time. A groan. Then a weak voice, muffled under concrete and steel.
"Help."
Shit.
Cole was already moving toward the pile. I grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back.
"Don't," I said. "That could be bait. Hammer's people love that trick. You lift the slab, a grenade rolls out, we all go home in pieces."
"Or it's someone who needs help," Cole said. He shook me off. Not rough. Just firm. Like he'd already decided.
"We don't have time to be heroes."
"Then go," he said. "I'll catch up."
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to drag him by the collar and shove him down the alley until we were out of this kill zone. But Leah was already kneeling by the rubble, pressing her ear to a gap in the concrete.
"It's a kid," she said. "I can hear him breathing. Fast. Shallow."
"Great. A kid. That makes it so much better."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were flat. No judgment. Just tired.
"You're the one who makes the call," she said.
I looked at the others. They were all watching me. Waiting. Some of them looked hopeful. Some looked scared. A couple looked like they agreed with me but weren't gonna say it out loud.
I looked at the rubble. It was a concrete beam, maybe eight feet long, pinning down a mess of metal sheeting and broken glass. The gap underneath was just wide enough to see a hand. Small. Pale. Not moving.
Damn it.
"Two minutes," I said. "If we can't get him out in two minutes, we leave him."
Cole nodded. Leah was already pulling her pack off.
"I need three people on the beam," I said. "Cole, you're smallest. You go in and drag him out the second we lift."
"Got it."
I pointed at two others. "You and you. On my count."
They moved into position. I got my hands under the beam. The concrete was rough and cold. My palms were still scraped from the last firefight. I could feel the sting through the dried blood.
"One," I said. "Two. Lift."
We lifted.
The beam didn't move.
I dug my boots into the dirt and tried again. My shoulders burned. Someone grunted beside me. The beam shifted an inch. Maybe two.
"Not enough," Cole said. He was on his stomach, reaching into the gap. "I can't get to him."
"Then we're done," I said.
"Wait—"
"We're done, Cole."
I let go of the beam. The others did too. It dropped back into place with a heavy thud. Dust puffed up into my face.
Cole was still on the ground. He looked at me. Then at the beam. Then at me again.
"Boss," he said. "Please."
I hated that word. I hated the way he said it. Like I was supposed to be better than I was.
I wiped my hands on my pants and stepped up to the beam.
"Move," I said.
The two who'd helped before stepped back. I got both hands under the beam. Set my feet. Took a breath.
"When I lift," I said to Cole, "you go in fast. You don't stop. You don't check if he's breathing or crying or whatever. You grab him and you pull. Clear?"
"Clear."
I lifted.
This time I didn't count. I just shoved everything I had into it. My legs. My back. My arms. The beam came up. Slowly. My vision went white at the edges. I could hear my pulse in my ears.
"Go!" I shouted.
Cole went in. I held the beam. My hands were shaking. My knees wanted to buckle. I locked them and held.
"Got him!" Cole yelled.
I didn't wait. I let the beam drop and stumbled back. My hands were numb. My shoulders felt like someone had taken a hammer to them.
Cole dragged the kid out. He was small. Maybe fourteen. Fifteen at most. His face was covered in dust and blood. His uniform was torn but I could still see the red armband.
Hammer's crew.
"Shit," someone muttered behind me.
Leah was already checking his airway. She tilted his head back and listened. Then she pressed two fingers to his neck.
"He's alive," she said. "Barely."
"He's one of them," someone else said.
"He's a kid," Leah shot back.
"He's a kid with a rifle," I said. I looked around. There was no rifle. Maybe it was still under the rubble. Maybe he'd dropped it before the building came down. Didn't matter.
"We can't take him," the same voice said.
"We already did," I said. "Now we move. Cole, you carry him. Leah, stay close in case he stops breathing."
"Boss—"
"I said move."
We moved.
The alley was narrow and full of trash. Every shadow looked like a sniper. Every sound made me want to turn around and put a round through whatever was making it. My hands still hurt. My shoulders still burned. The kid on Cole's back wasn't moving.
We made it three blocks before he woke up.
Cole felt it first. He stopped and knelt down fast. The kid's eyes were open. Wide. Panicked. He tried to sit up and couldn't. Leah held his shoulder.
"Easy," she said. "You're safe."
The kid looked at her. Then at Cole. Then at me. His mouth moved but nothing came out.
"Water," Leah said.
I handed her my canteen. She held it to his lips. He drank. Coughed. Drank again.
Then he saw the beacon.
It was strapped to Cole's pack. The kid went white. He started shaking. Not just his hands. His whole body.
"No," he whispered. "No no no no—"
"Hey," Cole said. "You're okay. We got you out."
"You don't understand," the kid said. His voice cracked. "That thing. You can't— you can't have that—"
"We know it's a beacon," I said. "We're getting rid of it."
"No," the kid said. He was crying now. "You don't get it. Hammer— Hammer said— he said whoever's carrying that when he finds it—"
He stopped. His throat worked. He looked at me like I was already dead.
"He said he's gonna skin them alive," the kid whispered. "In front of everyone. So no one ever touches his supply line again."
No one said anything.
The wind picked up. Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking. Or maybe it was something else.
I looked at the beacon. Then at Cole. Then at the kid.
"How does he know who has it?" I asked.
The kid's eyes were still on the beacon. He was shaking so hard I thought he might pass out again.
"The drone," he said. "It sent the feed. He knows your faces. He knows your voices. He knows everything."