The silence pressed in like a vice.
No bullets. No voices. No movement from the woods.
But they were still out there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Tiger adjusted his stance for the third time, weight shifting between his boots like he was trying to stay loose—but the tension was in his shoulders, tight and high.
Kol's voice was low, urgent. "They're not moving because they don't have to. They're waiting for us to crack."
I glanced at the crates. At the sealed white one. Still pulsing with that cold hum.
We couldn't fight our way out.
Couldn't call for help.
And waiting here meant they'd close in tighter.
Every option sucked.
Until Kol looked toward the old shed near the corner of the yard—half buried under moss and age.
"There's a chance," he said. "But it's a long one."
Tiger followed his line of sight. "You think it's still open?"
"Only one way to find out."
The shed looked like it would collapse under a heavy wind. The walls leaned. The roof sagged. One of the hinges on the door had rusted through entirely.
But Kol moved with purpose, sweeping aside vines and debris with the toe of his boot.
"Old smuggling routes," he muttered. "Back before the organization took over this yard, it was used for off-grid traffic. Word is, the original tunnels are still down there. Forgotten."
"Forgotten doesn't mean stable," I said.
He crouched, prying open a slatted hatch beneath a warped crate. "It doesn't mean unstable either."
A foul rush of air escaped.
Stale. Earthy. Wet.
But under it—space.
A tunnel.
Tiger lit a glow stick and dropped it down.
It fell about eight feet before it landed in murky light.
A clear path. Concrete sides. Wire rails embedded in stone from a time when things were moved by hand.
Mick gagged lightly behind me. "We're going in there?"
I nodded. "Unless you'd rather stay here and wait for whatever's circling us."
He shook his head quickly.
I turned to Tiger. "Get the straps. We're not leaving anything behind."
Including the monster.