Page 74 of Rebel
Allura’s voice turns pure command.“Everyone underground. Seal the doors. Raven, French, Carter, you’re with me topside.”
The ground vibrates with a low, pulsing hum that’s not just thunder. Its engines. Dozens of them.
Carter meets me at the tunnel entrance, eyes sharp, face streaked with sweat. “We’ve got company. Real soon.”
“Then let’s welcome ’em properly,” I say, cocking my pistol.
He catches my arm. “Not you. You get them clear.” He nods to the women and children behind us.
“I’m not hiding while you die.”
His grip tightens. “You’re not hiding. You’re leading.”
Before I can answer, Divine’s voice cuts through, high and panicked. “They’ve activated the reaper key again. The code’s looping over and over, it’s war drums, Rebel. In digital.”
“Then play ’em loud,” I say, stepping into the dark. “Let the bastards know we’re awake.”
Carter’s hand brushes mine once, a touch heavy with everything we can’t say. Then he turns, running back toward the sound of engines and fire.
The tunnel door seals behind us, cutting off the sound of engines. Carter’s last words still echo through my head.“You’re not hiding, you’re leading.”
Then Divine’s voice breaks through the static, tight, terrified.“They’re inside the system again. They’re rewriting the access keys.”
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“It means if we don’t stop them now,”she gasps,“they’ll turn the shelter network into a kill list.”
A thunderclap rolls above. Not thunder,explosions.
Carter’s voice rips through the comms, raw and alive.“Rebel, RUN!”
But I don’t. I grab my gun and sprinttowardthe noise.
Because the Royal Harlots don’t run from war. We ride into it.
20
REBEL
The tunnels open into the old underground garage, a relic from the gun-running days.
Calypso leans against the wall, pale but steady, Annabelle asleep against her chest. Farris checks the first van, fuel full, tires good, back seats already stacked with blankets and bottled water. Women and children file in under the red glow of the exit light, clutching what’s left of their lives.
“All right,” I bark, steadying my voice. “Two convoys. Calypso, you and Farris take the first with the kids. I’ll follow with the rest. Keep comms open. No lights once we hit the highway.”
French’s voice crackles through my earpiece.“Capone’s sending Torch and Knight to intercept halfway. Farmhouse is clear. We’ve got Bastards posted on the perimeter.”
“Copy that,” I reply, slamming the van door.
Farris climbs behind the wheel of the first van with Calypso. “You sure about this place?”
“It’s off-grid,” I answer. “No cameras, no traffic, no way for the Vultures to trace us. It’ll hold.”
He nods, and the engines growl to life. I hurry to the second van and once the rest of the women are in, I fire it up.
We roll out into the dark, headlights cutting quick before switching off. The city falls away behind us, all neon and noise fading into brush and open desert. The stars stretch wide and merciless overhead. The women sit silent, the kids bundled tight, small hands gripping worn stuffed animals.
An hour later, lights appear ahead. Royal Bastards' colors gleaming under the moonlight. Torch raises a gloved hand to signal that the gate is open. The dirt road bends toward a lonely two-story farmhouse surrounded by rusted fencing, dense forest, and dry fields.
