Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 41
“You're trying to distract me,” I said.
“Is it working?”
“Da.”
“Good.” He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “Stay alive tonight, Viktor. I have plans for you when we get back.”
The promise in his voice sent heat straight through me. “What kind of plans?”
“The kind that require a bed. And privacy. And you making those sounds you pretend you don't make when I touch you.”
Christ.
I grabbed his wrist, pulled him close enough to feel every word. “Then you better keep up. Because I am not slowing down for you out there.”
“Wouldn't dream of asking you to.” His hand found the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. “We do this together. Like everything else.”
“Together,” I agreed.
“Noah,” I said into the comm. “We are moving.”
“Copy. I've got eyes on the building. Two patrols. One at the north entrance, one circling the perimeter. Window's in three minutes when they rotate.”
We headed for the garage. Sebastian's hand found mine in the corridor, laced our fingers together. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel real.
“If this goes wrong—” he started.
“It will not.”
“But if it does—”
I stopped walking. Turned to face him. “It will not. Because I have plans too. And they all require you alive.”
His smile was worth every risk we were about to take. “Yeah?”
“Da. Many plans. Very detailed. Most inappropriate for royal setting.”
“Now you're just teasing.”
“You started it.”
We took the bike. Rain hammered down as I drove, Sebastian's arms wrapped around my waist, his body pressed against my back. Warm despite the cold. Solid despite the danger we were riding toward. His hands splayed across my stomach, fingers digging in when I took corners too fast, holding on like letting go would mean losing everything.
At a red light, his mouth found the side of my neck. Hot breath. Open lips. Teeth grazing skin.
“Distraction,” I warned.
“Motivation,” he corrected. “Get us through this alive, and I'll make it worth your while.”
“You are going to get us killed before we even arrive.”
“Then drive faster.”
The light changed. I opened the throttle. London blurred past, all wet streets and distant sirens and the weight of Sebastian against my back, his hands on my body, his breath in my ear promising things we might not live to collect.
Southwark rose from the dark like a graveyard. Abandoned factories. Rotting warehouses. The kind of neighborhood where screams didn't get reported and bodies took days to find.
Perfect for people who wanted to stay hidden.
I killed the engine two blocks out. We moved on foot, staying low, using abandoned cars and dumpsters for cover. The data center squatted ahead, five stories of concrete and broken windows. Looked dead. But light bled from the basement level, faint and blue.
Server glow.
“North patrol just turned the corner,” Noah's voice whispered in my ear. “You've got ninety seconds before he comes back around.”
We moved fast. Reached the side entrance. Sebastian pulled lockpicks from his belt, worked the mechanism with hands that knew this dance too well. The lock clicked. We were in.
The interior smelled like mold and electricity. Water damage stained the walls. Ceiling tiles hung loose, revealing ductwork and exposed wiring. My boots crunched on broken glass.
“Heat signature moving toward your position,” Noah warned. “Second floor. Single target. Armed.”
I pressed against the wall. Sebastian melted into shadow beside me, bow already in hand, arrow nocked. We waited.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Deliberate. A guard descended, assault rifle slung over his shoulder, phone in his hand. Texting. Not paying attention.
Fatal mistake.
Sebastian's arrow caught him in the throat. Silent. Clean. The man's phone clattered to the floor. He followed it, hands scrabbling at the shaft, blood spraying hot and arterial. His eyes went wide. Then empty.
We kept moving.
“Basement access is ahead,” Noah said. “But you've got a problem. Two guards at the door. Both armed. Both alert.”
“Can you loop the cameras?” Sebastian asked.
“Already done. But they'll notice if both men disappear.”
“They will not have time to notice,” I said.
We reached the basement door. Two men stood there, exactly as Noah said. Professional stance. Eyes scanning. Fingers resting near triggers.
I looked at Sebastian. Held up three fingers. Counted down.
Three.
Two.
One.
We moved together. I went left, Sebastian went right. My suppressor coughed twice. Both rounds found their target. Headshots. The man dropped without a sound.
Sebastian's arrow punched through the second guard's eye socket. Went so deep the tip came out the back of his skull. The man's finger twitched on the trigger as he fell. One round went wild, sparked off concrete.
“Shit,” Sebastian hissed.
“Inside. Now.”
We dragged the bodies through the door, let it close behind us. The basement opened up into a maze of server racks and humming machinery. Cold air. Blue light. The mechanical heartbeat of data flowing through circuits.
“Noah, we are in,” I said.
“Good. You're looking for server rack seven. Should be in the northeast corner. Main terminal is there. You'll need to access it directly to bypass the encryption. I can walk Sebastian through it while you keep them off him.”
We moved through the racks. Checking corners. Clearing angles. My pulse hammered against my throat. Too quiet. Too easy.
Sebastian reached the terminal first. Pulled out a data cable, plugged into the port. His fingers flew across the keyboard, muscle memory taking over. “Noah, I'm in. What am I looking for?”
“Root directory. Folder labeled 'Transactions.' Start the upload. I'll grab everything as it comes through.”
Then gunfire erupted behind us.
Bullets sparked off server racks. I dove left, returning fire. Glass shattered. Metal screamed. Someone had known we were coming.
“Contact!” I shouted. “Multiple hostiles!”
“I count six heat signatures converging on your position,” Noah's voice stayed calm. Clinical. “They came from a hidden room on the north wall. Sebastian, keep working. Upload's at twelve percent.”
Six targets. Two of us. Sebastian locked at the terminal. Worse math.
A man rounded the corner, rifle raised. I shot him twice. Center mass. He went down. Another took his place immediately. Trained. Coordinating.
Sebastian's left hand never stopped typing. His right hand grabbed his bow, nocked an arrow, and released in one fluid motion. The arrow caught the second man in the chest. Obsidian tip punched through Kevlar like tissue paper. The man staggered. Sebastian typed three more commands, then put another arrow through the man's throat.
“Upload at twenty-eight percent,” Noah reported. “Keep going.”
Three down. Three to go.
A guard charged my position. I met him head-on, ducked under his rifle swing, drove my elbow into his throat. Cartilage crunched. He gagged, stumbled back. I swept his legs, came down on top of him, knife finding the gap between his vest and collar. Blood fountained. He went still.
Sebastian's fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard. His eyes flicked to the right. Guard approaching from his blind spot. He grabbed his bow one-handed, twisted in his chair, and released. The arrow took the man through the eye. Sebastian was back to typing before the body hit the floor.
“Forty-three percent. Faster than I expected.”
Grenades bounced across the floor. Small. Metal. Flash-bangs, maybe. Or worse.
“Down!” I grabbed the nearest server rack, pulled it over as cover. The explosion rocked the basement. Light. Sound. Heat. My ears screamed. Vision went white.
Through the ringing, I heard Sebastian still typing.
Then shapes moved through the smoke. More guards. At least eight. Pouring in from multiple directions.
“Sebastian, we have a problem,” I said.
“I can see them.” His voice was calm. Focused. “Upload's at fifty-nine percent. Buy me two minutes.”
Two minutes. A lifetime in combat.
I moved forward, intercepting the first wave. A man swung at me with a tactical baton. I caught his wrist, twisted until bones snapped, used his momentum to throw him into his partner. Both went down. I shot them where they lay.
Sebastian spun in his chair, bow drawn, and released three arrows in rapid succession. Three different targets. All headshots. Then he was back to typing, one hand on the keyboard while the other nocked another arrow.
A guard came at me from the left, knife flashing. I parried with my forearm, felt the blade bite into my jacket but not skin. Grabbed his knife hand, broke his elbow backward. He screamed. I silenced him with a shot to the temple.
“Seventy-four percent,” Noah said. “Almost there.”
Two guards coordinated an assault on Sebastian's position. Smart. Professional. They moved in a pincer formation, covering each other.
Sebastian saw them coming. Didn't stop typing. His left hand flew across keys while his right hand grabbed a throwing knife from his belt. He threw it without looking. It buried itself in the first guard's throat. The man dropped.
The second guard raised his rifle. Sebastian grabbed his bow, rolled backward out of his chair, came up firing. The arrow caught the guard mid-chest. He fell.
Sebastian was back in the chair, typing, before the echoes faded.
“Ninety-one percent,” Noah reported.
A massive guard, easily two hundred fifty pounds, charged through the server racks like a bull. Headed straight for Sebastian. For the terminal.
I intercepted him. Barely. He hit me like a truck. We went down together, rolled across concrete. His fist caught my jaw. Stars exploded. I tasted copper.
I drove my knee into his ribs. Once. Twice. Three times. Felt something crack. He didn't slow. Grabbed my throat with hands like vices. Squeezed.
Air cut off. Vision narrowing. I reached for my knife. Fingers found the handle. Drew it. Drove it up under his armpit. Twisted. He roared, grip loosening. I yanked the blade out, slashed across his throat. Arterial spray painted my face.
He collapsed on top of me. Dead weight. I shoved him off, gasping.
“Upload complete,” Noah said. “I've got everything. Files are already decrypting. Get out of there. Now.”
“Copy.” Sebastian yanked the cable free, grabbed his bow. “Viktor, we're done.”
We moved fast. Back through the basement. Over bodies that were still warm. More guards poured down the stairs. We were outnumbered. Outgunned. Trapped.
“Stairs are blocked,” I said.
“Then we make a new exit.” Sebastian nocked an arrow, fired at a support beam. The arrow embedded deep. He fired another. Then another. Creating a pattern.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Trust me.”
He fired one more arrow into a gas line running along the ceiling. The spark from the obsidian tip ignited the leak.
“Run!”
We sprinted toward the far wall. Behind us, the explosion tore through the basement. Heat and pressure lifted us off our feet. We hit a weakened section of concrete wall. It gave way. We crashed through into a storm drain.
Water rushed past. Cold. Fast. Filthy.
“That was insane,” I said.
“But effective.” Sebastian grabbed my arm. “Come on. Drain empties into the Thames.”
We waded through waist-deep water. My shoulder throbbed where shrapnel had caught me. Blood mixed with sewage. Everything hurt.
Behind us, voices shouted. Flashlight beams cut through darkness. They were following.
“How far?” I asked.
“Two hundred meters. Maybe less.”
A guard appeared at the entrance we'd come through. Raised his rifle. Sebastian shot him through the throat without breaking stride. The man fell into the water. Floated past us.
Two more guards appeared. Both fired. Bullets sparked off concrete. We dove under the water. Came up behind a support column. I returned fire. Dropped one. Sebastian's arrow found the other.
“Contact ahead,” Noah's voice crackled through the waterlogged comm. “Three hostiles at the exit point.”
“Of course there are,” Sebastian muttered.
We reached the exit. Chain-link fence blocked it. Beyond, the Thames churned black and cold. Three guards waited on the other side, weapons raised.
Sebastian nocked an arrow. “On three. You take left. I take center and right.”
“That is two targets for you.”
“I'm good with multitasking.” His grin was feral. Wild. “One.”
I raised my pistol.
“Two.”
The guards tensed. Fingers on triggers.
“Three.”
We moved together. I shot left. Double tap. The man dropped. Sebastian released his first arrow, caught center guard through the eye, nocked a second arrow before the first man fell, and put it through the third guard's throat.
All three down in under two seconds.
“Show off,” I said.
“You're welcome.”
We climbed through the fence. Emerged onto a muddy bank. Rain hammered down. The city sprawled ahead, all lights and sirens and the promise of temporary safety.
“Noah,” Sebastian said into the comm. “We're clear. Files uploaded?”
“Already decrypting. This is good work. Really good. Financial records going back eighteen months. Communication logs. Everything we need.” A pause. “Head to the safehouse. Greenwich. I'll have preliminary analysis done by the time you arrive.”
“Copy.”
The bike was four blocks away. We ran through rain-soaked streets, staying to alleys, avoiding cameras. My lungs burned. Shoulder screamed. Didn't matter. We had the data. Had the proof.
Had each other.
We reached the bike. Sebastian threw his leg over, started the engine. I climbed on behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist. Held on.
He drove fast. Reckless. Like the devil was chasing us. Maybe he was.
24
THE HOLLOW CALM
VIKTOR
The bike's engine thrummed beneath us, a steady pulse against the silence. Rain hammered the windscreen, turning London into a blur of orange lights and shadow. My shoulder throbbed where shrapnel had torn through during the escape. Not deep. Just enough to bleed through my jacket and make every turn feel like broken glass grinding into muscle.
Sebastian drove like he was outrunning ghosts. Fast but controlled. His body tense against mine where I held on behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. I could feel his heartbeat through his tactical vest. Steady. Focused.
Greenwich emerged from the dark ahead. Old warehouses squatting like tombstones along the Thames. Abandoned docks where rust and river water ate through steel. The kind of neighborhood where screams got swallowed by fog and bodies disappeared into the current.
Perfect for a safehouse. Perfect for people like us.
The boathouses appeared through the rain. Derelict facades hiding reinforced bunkers underneath. Luka's work. Adrian's money. The combination had built something that looked dead from outside but hummed with life within.
Sebastian slowed at the gate. Killed the engine. The sudden silence felt wrong after the mechanical roar.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“Da. Is just scratch.”
“You're bleeding through your jacket.”
“Is still just scratch.”
He dismounted first, offered his hand. I took it because refusing would've been stupid pride, and stupid pride got people killed. The ground felt unsteady under my boots. Blood loss, probably. Not enough to matter. Just enough to make the world tilt slightly left.
The gate opened. Luka stood there, rifle slung over his shoulder, grinning like this was all some grand joke. “Late as usual, Volkov. You're slipping.”
“Still alive, aren't I?”
“Barely. You look like shit.” His eyes tracked to my shoulder, to the blood seeping through fabric. “Inside. Now. Before you bleed out on my doorstep and ruin the aesthetic.”
Sebastian's hand stayed on my good arm as we walked. Guiding. Supporting without making it obvious. I appreciated that more than I'd admit.
The interior was warmth and light and the smell of gun oil mixed with coffee. Familiar. Safe as anything in our world could be safe.
Adrian looked up from the main table as we entered. His eyes went to my shoulder immediately. “Noah.”
Noah appeared from the side room, medical kit already in hand. He took one look at me and pointed to a chair. “Sit.”
“Is not that bad.”
“Sit anyway.” His voice carried that particular mix of gentleness and steel that meant arguing would be pointless. “Or I'll have Adrian make you sit.”
I sat.
The room was full. Dom stood near the weapons locker, watching with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Troy and Dmitri flanked the entrance, both armed, both alert. Troy was built like he could stop a truck, all solid muscle and military bearing. Dmitri was leaner, Russian angles and nervous hands. Both good men. Both people I'd trust to watch my back.
Ash leaned against the far wall, all leather and tattoos and survivor's instinct. Luka's husband. The kind of sharp that came from being broken and choosing to stay sharp instead of shattering.
Sebastian moved to stand beside me as Noah worked. Didn't touch. Just stood close enough that I could feel his presence. Grounding. Real.
“Report first or medical attention first?” Adrian asked.
“Both,” I said. “Can do both.”
“Stubborn bastard,” Noah muttered. He'd already cut away my jacket, was cleaning the wound with steady hands. Medical training made him efficient. Living with Adrian made him unshakeable. “Shrapnel. Went through clean. You're lucky.”
