Chapter 20 · Dead Screens

The last monitor went black.

Dominic already had my wrist.

Not hard. Just there. Like he’d made up his mind before the glass even cooled.

"Lamps," he said.

I hit the switch on the green banker’s lamp beside me. He snapped off the other. The counting room dropped into dark so thick I could taste it on my teeth.

The dehumidifier kept humming. That was the sick part. Something completely normal still running while the radio on his tactical belt coughed out static.

"East fence is down," a voice broke through, ragged. "Ricci, you copy? East fence—"

Dead air.

Dominic keyed the mic. Calm. Flat. The voice of a man who handled bad news for a living. "Ricci. Say again."

Nothing.

He let go of the button. Took one breath through his nose, slow and even. Doing the math in his head.

"Twelve," I whispered. "That’s what you said. Twelve men."

"That’s what we could count." His hand slid from my wrist up to my shoulder, guiding me. "Move. Left. The cot’s on your left."

My shin clipped the steel frame anyway. I bit down on a curse.

The blue carbon slip was still crumpled in my fist.