"GO!" he snarls at me, alpha authority weaponized and deafening in the concrete corridor. Not an alpha bark, but my legs move before my brain authorizes them.
I run.
Behind me, Stephen roars. The sound of bodies colliding. Fists on flesh. The wet crack of bone.
I sprint down the corridor, past the locked doors, past the stairwell where I came in, and I'm three steps from the corner when gunfire erupts.
POP.
POP.
POP.
The sound is concussive in the enclosed space, slamming my eardrums, and I skid to a stop.
Rex doesn't have a gun.
No.
No no no?—
I turn back.
More footsteps now. Not Rex's or Stephen's.Multiple, coming from the stairwell, boots pounding in coordinated rhythm. More guards. Fresh ones.
I round the corner and run straight into them.
Three of them. Tactical vests, sidearms drawn, and the one in front clotheslines me across the chest with a forearm that lifts me off my feet and drops me flat on my back on the concrete.
All the air leaves my body.
I'm gasping, trying to roll, trying to get up, when a knee drops onto my spine and my arms get wrenched behind me. The zip tie cinches tight around my wrists—tootight, the plastic biting into skin—and I scream more from rage than pain.
"GET THE FUCK OFF ME?—"
A hand fists in my hair and hauls me to my feet.
I thrash.
Kick one of them in the shin hard enough to hear him yelp. Slam my forehead into another's nose and relish in the satisfying crunch. But my hands are bound and my knife is somewhere in the dark behind me and there are three of them and one of me, and they drag me back through the corridor with my boots scraping the concrete.
The rehearsal theater.
The birdcage.
They throw me inside.
I hit the bench and bounce off it onto the stone floor, my bound hands taking none of the impact. My shoulder screams. My cheek grinds against cold stone.
The cage door clangs shut.
I'm still trying to get to my knees when they haul Rex in.
Two guards on each side, dragging him by the arms, his boots leaving twin streaks of blood on the stone. He's wrapped in heavy industrial chains, the kind used for rigging, wound around his torso and arms and cinched tight behind his back, binding his wrists at his lower spine.
He's still snarling.
Still fighting forme.