Tick-Tock

Tick-Tock


The engine roared to life as Shane gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. The tires screeched against the asphalt as they sped onto the highway, weaving through the sparse late-night traffic. The city lights flickered past in a blur, but neither of them paid any attention. The only thing that mattered was getting to Berkeley Street. Fast.

"Pull up the address," Shane ordered, eyes locked on the road ahead.

Aaron, already ahead of him, tapped furiously on his phone. The GPS took a second to load, then displayed the route. "Got it," he said, voice tight. "Fifteen minutes out if we push it."

Shane pushed it.

The car shot forward, the speedometer needle climbing rapidly. The urgency in the air was thick enough to choke on. Something was wrong. They had both felt it the moment their calls to Hera and Thompson went unanswered.

Aaron pressed redial. "Come on… pick up, pick up." The line rang, then cut out.

He cursed under his breath and tried Thompson instead. Nothing.

"This isn't good," Shane muttered, gaze hard.

"You think?" Aaron shot back, refreshing the tracking system on his laptop. A pulsing dot marked the location of Hera's last signal. It wasn’t moving. Neither was Thompson’s.

Aaron's stomach twisted. "They're not responding, and they're not moving."

Shane’s grip tightened on the wheel. His jaw tensed. "Then we better get there before they stop breathing."

He slammed his foot on the gas. The car surged forward, racing against time.



Meanwhile, back in the facility in Berkeley Street, A dull, throbbing pain pounded against Hera’s skull as she stirred back to consciousness. A sharp ringing filled her ears, muffling the distant echoes of dripping water and hushed movement. Her fingers twitched first, followed by a slow attempt to move her arms—only to realize she couldn’t.

Restraints.

Her eyes fluttered open. The dim glow of a single overhead light flickered above her, barely illuminating the room. The scent of damp concrete and old metal filled her nose, and when she shifted slightly, the cold bite of steel against her wrists made her suck in a breath.

"Don’t bother, Snow," came Thompson’s voice, rough but steady. "I've been trying to do that since I woke up."

Hera stilled, focusing on her surroundings. Her arms were pulled behind her, wrists bound tightly. A quick tug told her they were tied to something solid. She turned her head slightly, and the tension in the restraints made sense.

A pole.

She and Thompson were back-to-back, their hands secured to the same structure.

Her muscles ached as she tried to shift. "Great," she muttered. "Any idea where we are?"

"Basement, most likely," Thompson replied. "Not far from where we were before everything went to hell."

Hera’s gaze moved to the other side of the room, and her stomach clenched at the sight of the diplomats. The two women and the man were still there, hands bound, duct tape once again covering their mouths. Their eyes—wide with fear—flickered toward her and Thompson.

The man, the one who had tried to warn her before, wasn’t looking at her directly. Instead, his gaze was lowered, fixated on something below her.

Frowning, Hera followed his line of sight.

It took her a moment to see it.

Strapped to her ankle was a small, black device. A flashing red light pulsed in the darkness.

Her breath hitched.

"You have got to be kidding me," she muttered.

For a long, tense moment, Hera simply stared at the flashing red light strapped to her ankle, willing it to disappear. But it didn’t.

A bomb.

Tightly secured, its small display screen blinked a slow, menacing countdown, though she couldn’t see the numbers from her angle. A tangle of wires ran beneath the strap, some disappearing under the chair she was bound to. The whole setup looked crude but effective.

Thompson exhaled sharply behind her. "Tell me I’m hallucinating, Snow."

Hera swallowed the dryness in her throat and forced her voice to remain steady. "I really wish I could."

She turned her head slightly, though she couldn’t see him. "How bad are the restraints?"

"Military-grade zip ties," he muttered. "Can’t break them by force. Need a sharp edge or a blade."

Hera clenched her jaw, testing her wrists again. The plastic didn’t budge, cutting into her skin the more she struggled. She forced herself to stop. Panic wasn’t going to help.

Instead, she glanced back at the diplomats. The man—still watching her intently—lowered his eyes again toward the floor, then back up at her. It wasn’t just the bomb he was gesturing at.

Something was there.

Hera shifted her leg carefully, adjusting her weight to lean slightly forward. Her eyes scanned the dimly lit floor beneath her chair. A glint of something metal caught her attention near the diplomat’s foot.

A knife.

Small, possibly a hidden boot blade, but it was there. Close enough that she could reach—if she was careful.

Thompson must have noticed her shift. "What are you doing?"

She took a slow breath. "We’re getting out of this."

"That’s great and all, but in case you missed it, there’s a bomb literally tied to your foot."

"Which is exactly why we don’t have time to sit here." She glanced toward the diplomats again. "I need to get that knife."

Thompson hesitated. "Even if you do, you cut the wrong wire on that thing, we’re dead."

Hera’s expression hardened. "Then I guess I better not cut the wrong wire."

Thompson let out a slow exhale. "This is insane."

"Yeah? Well, so is sitting here waiting to explode," Hera shot back.

The diplomat must have understood the urgency because he shifted his foot slightly, nudging the small knife closer. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Hera to work with.

Carefully, she extended her foot, nudging the knife even closer. Her heart pounded as the blade barely grazed the tip of her boot. One wrong movement, one overcorrection, and it would slide out of reach entirely.

"Anytime now, Snow," Thompson muttered.

"Shut up and let me focus," she hissed.

With painstaking precision, she dragged the handle closer, millimeter by millimeter, until she was finally able to hook her boot around it. Slowly, she tilted her foot, angling the blade toward her hands.

It was a painstaking process.

Seconds stretched into what felt like hours as she maneuvered the small weapon, twisting her wrists as far as they could go. Finally, the cold handle met her fingers. She adjusted her grip, pressing the serrated edge against the thick zip tie.

The plastic was tough. It wouldn’t snap easily, but she didn’t need easy—she just needed patience.

Behind her, Thompson kept still, his breathing even. "How’s it looking?"

"Almost there," she muttered.

The ties gave the slightest bit of resistance before the first fibers began to snap. One by one, she sawed through them, careful not to let her movements become too jerky. Then—

A sudden pop.

The tie gave way, loosening just enough for her to wiggle a hand free. She wasted no time slicing off the rest. Thompson gave a grunt as she twisted to cut his restraints.

Before she could reach him, the door creaked open.

Hera froze.

Four men in masks strode in, rifles raised, their boots echoing against the concrete floor. The lead one tilted his head, gun trained on her.

"Get back in your seat," he ordered, voice low and dangerous. "Unless you want a bullet in your head."

Thompson tensed behind her. Hera’s grip tightened on the knife still in her hand.

Their escape had just become a whole lot more complicated. Hera prayed desperately that Aaron and Shane were somewhere close and nearby.