Chapter 48: The Rescue (Liam POV)

I crouched in the dark corner outside the server room, my heart pounding loudly in my chest, my hands sweaty against the wall. Nate had gone in alone, wired up, brave, and stupidly brave. I’d stayed back like he’d asked, my breath coming fast, my legs itching to move. The plan was simple: he’d get Harper talking, Talia’s mics would catch it, and Zoe would send it out. But every second he was in there, my stomach twisted tighter, my hands clenched hard. I’d promised him, promised us, we’d make it, and I wasn’t letting her take him again.

The door was cracked, just enough, and her voice slipped out—sharp, smug, bragging about the breach and the frame-up. My chest burned, and my hands shook. She was admitting it, every word Nate needed, caught on tape. I leaned closer, holding my breath, my eyes on the gap. He was pushing her, his voice steady, “You set me up,” and she laughed, cold and mean, spilling it all—stealing files, pinning it on him, using me. My throat tightened, my hands clenched into fists. She’d played us both, and I’d let her once.

Then, her tone shifted—hard, low: “You think I’d come alone?” My heart stopped, my legs tensed. A gun clicked, sharp and clear, and Nate’s voice broke. “Harper—” My breath caught, my hands went cold. She’d pulled it, aimed it at him. There was no time. I burst through the door, my shoes slamming against the floor. My eyes locked on her back, the gun steady in her hand, Nate’s hands up, his face pale.

“Drop it!” I yelled, my voice loud and rough, charging her fast. She spun, her eyes wide, and the gun swung toward me—too slow. I grabbed her wrist, my hands tight, twisting hard, my heart racing. She fought back, her nails digging into my skin, her voice hissing, “You—” but I shoved her, my weight pushing her down, forcing her arm to the floor. The gun fired—loud, sharp, echoing. My ears rang, and my breath left me.

She screamed, her leg buckling, blood pooling fast on the floor—her leg, hit, the bullet tearing through. My hands shook, my grip loosening as she dropped, the gun clattering free. I kicked it away, my chest heaving, my eyes darting to Nate. He was up, alive, his hands grabbing at his shirt. The mic was still there.

“You okay?” I asked, my voice breaking as I stepped toward him quickly.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice shaky, his hands steadying on me. “Got it—her confession.” He pulled the mic free, the small red light blinking—still recording. My chest loosened, my breath coming fast. She’d talked, bragged, and we had it, every word.

Harper groaned, her hands clutching her leg, blood seeping through her fingers. Her face twisted in pain. “You’re dead,” she spat, her voice low and mean, her eyes blazing up at us. My stomach twisted, my hands clenched. She was down, hurt, but still fighting, still dangerous.

Sirens blared outside—loud and close, cutting through the hum of the servers. My heart jumped, and my head turned. Red and blue flashed through the windows, and tires screeched.

“Feds,” Nate said, his voice low, his hand on my arm. “Zoe—she sent it.”

I nodded, my breath slowing, my eyes on the door. Zoe’d gotten the feed out, alerted them fast, just like we’d planned. Footsteps pounded—boots, heavy—agents swarmed in, guns raised, voices sharp: “Hands up! Down—now!” My hands lifted slowly, and Nate’s did too, the mic still in his grip, proof we weren’t the threat.

They moved quickly—two grabbed Harper, pulling her up, her leg dragging, blood smearing the floor. “Get off!” she snapped, her voice weak but sharp, her eyes locked on me, then on Nate. Agents surrounded us, badges flashing, one barking, “Step back—now.” I moved, my hands still raised, Nate beside me, his breath fast but steady.

“She’s hit,” I said, my voice rough, nodding toward her. “Her gun fired when I took it.” An agent nodded briefly, his eyes hard, and he waved medics in—stretcher, bags, rushing to her. My chest tightened, and my hands dropped slowly. She’d aimed at Nate, would’ve shot him if I hadn’t moved. It was my fault she was bleeding, but it was his fault she wasn’t dead.

“Nate Carter? Liam Ellis?” an agent said, his voice loud, stepping closer, his gun now down. “You’re coming with us—for statements, now.” I nodded, my legs shaky, my eyes on Nate. He held the mic tight, our ticket out, her voice trapped on it.

“Yeah,” Nate said, his voice firm, handing it over. “Listen to this—her confession. Breach, frame-up—all her.”

The agent took it, his face blank, slipping it into a bag. “We’ll see,” he said, his voice flat, waving us out. My hand brushed Nate’s, quick and soft—alive, safe, together. Medics lifted Harper, her face pale, her leg wrapped. Her eyes were still burning as they carried her past.

She glared, her voice low and cold, cutting through the noise: “This isn’t over.” My heart sank, my hands clenched. Her stare was locked on us—full of hate, a promise sharp as a blade.