"Help me with this shelf," I hiss. Together, we shoulder against the heavy bookshelf. It grinds aside a few inches. I wedge my fingers into the crack along the secret door's edge and heave. My cybernetic arm whines and for a terrifying moment I feel it slipping, then Martinez joins in, leveraging his broad shoulder. With a screech, the hidden door relents and pops open, revealing a dark shaft descending into the earth.
Martinez nearly collapses with relief. I grab him under the arm. "Come on." I activate my shoulder-mounted light, just a dim beam and aim it down. A rusty ladder leads into blackness and the faintest odor of damp rot wafts up. Smells like freedom to me.
Martinez slings the rifle on his back and starts down first, one hand clamped tight to the rail, the other clutching his side. I follow, replacing my knife and picking up my pistol again, ready to cover us. We descend into the dark just as more shouting erupts from the hallway.
"They're here" someone yells. Muzzle flashes strobe above as bullets slam into the top of the hatchway. Martinez curses as a round sparks off the ladder near his hand but he keeps moving down. I fire a few shots upward blindly to discourage any heads peeking in, then duck fully into the shaft.
The secret door's angle provides some cover; they can't easily shoot straight down at us without coming into the office. But it's only a matter of time before they toss a grenade or rush in. The ladder rattles as we scramble down into the belly of the city. By the time our feet hit wet concrete, we're perhaps two stories underground, in some kind of service tunnel or storm sewer line.
My boots splash into a thin layer of water. The tunnel is arched, brick-lined, and barely lit by distant, flickering emergency lights. Martinez is leaning heavily against the wall, breathing hard. I tug his arm over my shoulder to support him. Overhead, echoing down the shaft, I hear more gunfire and shouts of frustration. They haven't dared jump in after us yet. Good. Maybe they're debating if it's worth the chase.
"Let's move," I whisper. Martinez nods, teeth gritted against the pain, and we slog forward through the shallow water. Each step echoes. The tunnel slopes gently upward after a few dozen yards. If Martinez's memory is right, this should lead out to a discharge outlet near a canal or alley.
After a minute of stumbling through the dark, we turn a bend and see faint gray light filtering in—a maintenance grate, half-submerged in rainwater runoff. Beyond it, the night sky is visible. That must be the exit. The grate is large enough for us to squeeze through, but currently latched shut with a corroded chain and padlock on our side.
I holster my pistol and grasp the chain. One good pull with my augmented arm might snap it. I brace and yank. The servos in my arm whine and then crack—the chain splits, the rusted links giving way. I fling the gate open. Fresh air pours in, laced with the scent of garbage and city rain.
"After you," I gesture wryly. Martinez grunts and limps through the opening. I clamber out after, into a narrow alley slick with rain and filth. Overhead, the night bleeds neon from distant signs, reflecting puddles in toxic pinks and greens. We're out. We're actually out.
Behind us, the secret tunnel yawns like the maw of some beast, but no one seems to be following immediately. Maybe Snake-Oil's mercs decided we weren't worth a chase into the sewers in the middle of a storm. Or maybe they're circling around to intercept elsewhere. Either way, we can't stay here.
I take one shaky breath, the cool rain plastering my hair to my forehead. My limbs feel like lead now that the rush of battle is fading. Martinez looks not much better—he's pale under the streetlamp glow, one hand pressed to his side where I suspect he's bleeding under that jacket. But his eyes meet mine, and there's a fierce light in them.
"You saved my ass, Bale," he rasps. "Didn't think I'd see daylight again." He extends a hand, slick with blood and rain.
I clasp it firmly. "Likewise. You holding together?"
He shrugs with a wince. "I've had worse." A blatant lie, but I let it slide. We share a brief, weary smirk. Both of us are half-dead, clinging to life out of sheer spite.
Above the distant wail of sirens and hum of the city, I hear a new sound—rotors. Possibly a police drone or private security chopper, drawn by the gunfire back at Silvio's compound. We definitely don't want to be here when they arrive.
"We gotta disappear," I say, already guiding him down the alley, away from the warehouse. "Quick and quiet."
Martinez nods, and together, supporting each other, we vanish into the labyrinthine backstreets. Heavy rain washes the blood from our clothes, but it can't wash away the grim knowledge hanging between us: Silvio is gone, Snake-Oil has taken everything, and something bigger is at play. I feel the hard outline of the data shard pressed against my chest in my coat pocket. Whatever's on it, Silvio thought it was worth hiding. Worth dying for, maybe. Once we're safe, I'm going to find out why.
For now, we fade into the neon-soaked darkness, two battered ghosts slipping free of the graveyard that was once Pizza Plaza. The night is far from over.