“Come with me,” Greg barked, already darting across the lobby.

  We chased him, but it was like chasing a shadow with legs. His movements were unnervingly quick—precise, even. Each stride ate up the tiled floor like he’d been training for this very sprint his whole life.

  The lobby itself felt more like a bunker than an entrance. The air carried that faint metallic tang of oil and machinery, the kind that clings to your tongue. Every sound bounced off the steel-paneled walls—our footfalls, the distant hum of ventilation ducts, the faint vibration of something large operating deep beneath the floor. Even the light here felt industrial, cold and sterile, falling in sharp beams that left large swaths in shadow.

  Under different circumstances, I might have taken a second to study the patterns in the floor tiles—thin grooves etched into each, like they’d been scratched by claws. Right now, I didn’t care.

  We cut left and skidded into a small lift bay. Two elevators stood there, silent sentinels, their brushed steel doors reflecting our distorted shapes. A single call button sat between them, scratched and worn from years of use.

  “Do you even know where the Armonk is exactly?” I asked, trying to keep up with Greg’s pace. “Tactical give you coordinates too?”

  “No,” he said flatly, stabbing the call button with his thumb. “I’m the only one in the FMA who knows. And if the TSA’s here, they’ve figured it out too.”

  The elevator on the right opened with a sluggish groan, like it resented the effort. We stepped inside, and immediately, Greg began punching buttons—not one, not two, but a sequence. Floor up, floor down, then another up, then back down again.

  Nikki frowned. “Uh… shouldn’t we be going up? Pretty sure vaults aren’t in the basement.”

  “We’re not going up,” Greg replied without looking at her. The floor counter ticked steadily downward. “This is a bypass code. Elevators here don’t just take you to a floor—they take you to a level. And the Armonk’s deep underground. You want to see sunlight again, we get there before the TSA does.”

  The descent felt endless. My ears popped twice, the air pressure shifting as if we were being swallowed whole. The walls hummed faintly from the motion, and with each passing second, my chest tightened with the weight of what we were about to walk into.

  The doors opened.

  Fluorescent light spilled in, bouncing off a space so polished it almost gleamed. Steel crates were stacked neatly against the far wall. The air was colder here, sharper, as though the temperature alone could preserve whatever secrets were kept inside.

  And there it was.

  The Armonk.

  Even boxed, I could see the outline through a small observation panel—a sleek, mechanical arm shaped with unnatural precision. Joints reinforced with intricate plating, faintly humming with power.

  But my focus broke when I saw them—the line of TSA agents surrounding it. Black armor, reflective visors, wands in hand.

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  One spotted us. His eyes widened. “Hey, over here!"

  As if a switch had flipped, every agent pivoted toward us, weapons rising in unison.

  “Push through,” I said quickly, my voice more steady than I felt.

  “Take them down!” one barked. “Don’t let them near the crate!”

  Three agents charged.

  The first swung low with his wand, aiming for my ribs. I caught his wrist, twisted, and drove my boot into his side. The impact jarred my leg, but he went flying into a glass wall with a sharp grunt, his wand skittering across the floor.

  Nikki ducked under a wide slash of blue energy from the second agent, countering with a quick blast of her own that sent him sprawling.

  The third lunged for Greg, but Greg moved with surgical precision—one sidestep, one strike, and the agent was down.

  “They’re moving it!” Greg shouted, pointing. Two agents had already started rolling the crate toward an open cargo ramp, where a massive plane waited like a predator with its jaws open.

  I didn’t think. I ran.

  The ramp was already rising when I leapt, my fingers barely catching the edge. The metal groaned under my weight, but I hauled myself in just as the door clamped shut behind me.

  Inside, the roar of the engines was deafening, the air thick with the stink of jet fuel. My boots vibrated against the floor, every step sending a dull thrum up my legs.

  I pressed myself into the shadows, heart hammering. This was insane. Thirty thousand feet in the air, trapped on an enemy transport with their most valuable weapon, no backup, no exit plan. My Perk could get me out in one jump, sure—but I’d probably shatter both legs on landing.

  I needed to call Mr. Drails.

  Crouching low, I scanned the hold. The Armonk’s crate sat strapped near the center, agents stationed in a tight perimeter. At the far end, Rocke stood like he owned the sky, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Three of you—guard this area,” he said. His voice was calm, almost lazy. “Absolute precision. No mistakes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A younger agent stepped forward. “Sir, the jets hitting the base—do we pull them back?”

  Rocke laughed, the sound sharp and unpleasant. “Tell them to keep firing. And make sure that kid with the Perk doesn’t walk away from this.”

  My stomach clenched. They weren’t after the Armonk alone. They’d sent warplanes for me.

  “We’ll head for the BMO base,” Rocke continued. “Rest, refuel, then straight to England. No one will expect it.”

  He turned and disappeared into the cockpit.

  I exhaled slowly, pulling the radio from my pocket and tuning to Drails’ channel.

  “Yeah?” His voice crackled through.

  “Good—you’re alive. Everyone okay?”

  “We will be. We found Nikki and—”

  “Greg,” I cut in. “School friend. FMA agent. He tell you that?”

  “Where are you?” Drails asked, his tone sharpening.

  “I’m on the cargo plane. With the Armonk.”

  “They have the Armonk?!” His voice spiked.

  “Keep it down!” I hissed. “If you see the plane, I’ll break the crate, you teleport in, grab it, teleport out. We’re back at YMPA before they even notice.”

  “And how exactly do we ‘see’ you mid-flight?”

  “No idea,” I admitted. “Boat, vehicle, magic carpet—I don’t care. Just be ready.”

  I killed the radio and wiped the sweat from my brow. Above the crate, a reinforced window gave a narrow view of the sky. That’d be my only warning if help—or trouble—showed up.

  Then—footsteps.

  Slow. Heavy. Getting closer.

  I crouched low, every muscle wound tight.

  An agent rounded the corner and froze when he saw me.

  I lunged. My shoulder slammed into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. Before he could shout, I hooked my arm around his neck and dragged him down. He thrashed, boots scraping on the metal floor.

  “Is there a code for that crate?” I growled.

  “Not telling you—”

  I squeezed tighter.

  “Okay! One… eighteen—”

  Same as the elevator code. My suspicion had been right.

  I shoved him behind a stack of crates and crawled toward the Armonk, heart thudding in my ears. My hand brushed the cold steel just as the radio hissed again.

  “We’re near you!” Drails’ voice was taut. “We found the plane—but military aircraft are closing fast. If they engage, that bird you’re on won’t stay in the air.”

  I froze. The engines’ steady hum felt louder now, almost like a countdown.

  If those jets caught us, the Armonk wouldn’t be the only thing going down in flames.