The Subterranean Map

POV: Malia

The smell of the subterranean tunnels was revolting: a thick, suffocating mixture of rotting algae, brackish water, and raw sewage. I stood knee-deep in the freezing sludge, shivering despite the thick neoprene tactical gear Jarrah had forced me to wear.

We had entered through a secondary municipal drain two miles north of the main port. The darkness down here was absolute, pierced only by the narrow, concentrated beams of the tactical lights mounted on our suppressed weapons.

Jarrah waded ahead of me, moving with terrifying silence for a man of his size. He had a suppressed MP5 submachine gun raised, sweeping the arched brick tunnels. I stayed right behind him, my tablet sealed in a waterproof rig against my chest, a compact SIG Sauer in my right hand, and a serrated combat knife strapped to my thigh.

"The structural weak point is three hundred yards ahead," I whispered, checking the digital map on my wrist monitor. "If they're planting C4, they'll group it along the primary load-bearing pillars."

Jarrah gave a sharp, single nod. He didn't speak. Down here, sound carried for miles.

We rounded a sharp curve in the tunnel, and the temperature instantly plummeted. Ahead of us, faint yellow light spilled across the black water. Voices echoed off the wet concrete. Alastair’s men.

Jarrah raised a closed fist. Stop.

I froze in the water. I could see them now. Four men in heavy tactical gear, standing on a raised concrete maintenance walkway that ran alongside the rushing water of the main drain. They were hurriedly wiring heavy, gray bricks of plastic explosives to the massive steel-reinforced pillars that held back the sea wall.

"Charges are set," one of the men barked, his voice echoing loudly. "Primer is in. Give me the damn detonator."

Jarrah looked over his shoulder at me. His eyes were cold, professional, and lethal. He held up two fingers, pointed to the left side of the walkway, then pointed to himself. He was going to take the two on the left. He gave me a questioning look, nodding toward the right.

I swallowed the lump of fear in my throat and nodded back. I could shoot. I just wasn't used to doing it in a wet, dark tunnel while waist-deep in filth.

Jarrah didn't hesitate. He surged out of the water, vaulting onto the concrete walkway with explosive speed. The suppressed MP5 coughed. Thwip-thwip-thwip.

The two men on the left dropped instantly, armor-piercing rounds chewing through their Kevlar vests.

The remaining two shouted, raising their rifles. I hoisted myself onto the slick concrete, my knees scraping against the rough edge. I brought the SIG up, aligning the tritium sights in the dark, and squeezed the trigger twice. One man caught a round in the shoulder, spinning backward into the black water with a splash.

But the fourth man didn't fire at me. He dropped his rifle, drawing a heavy combat blade, and lunged blindly into the shadows where Jarrah had ducked behind a pillar.

Jarrah was focused on the water, checking for the man I had shot. He didn't see the flank.

"Jarrah!" I screamed.

The thug swung the blade in a vicious arc toward Jarrah’s neck. Jarrah turned, realizing a fraction of a second too late. He managed to get his forearm up, taking a deep gash through his tactical sleeve. He grunted, stumbling back, his gun clattering to the concrete.

The man pressed his advantage, stepping in to drive the knife upward into Jarrah’s ribs.

I didn't think so. I didn't aim. I dropped my gun, drew the knife from my thigh holster, and closed the distance in two desperate strides. As the man reared back to stab Jarrah, I grabbed the collar of his tactical vest from behind, yanked him backward with all my body weight, and drove my blade deep into the side of his neck.

Hot, thick blood sprayed across my cheek and hands. The man made a wet, gurgling sound, dropping his knife as his hands flew to his throat. I ripped my blade out and shoved him hard. He collapsed onto the walkway, twitching before going completely still.

I stood there, gasping for air, the bloody knife trembling in my grip. I stared at the dead man, a wave of nausea washing over me.

"Malia."

I snapped my head up. Jarrah was clutching his bleeding forearm, but he wasn't looking at his wound. He was looking at me.

There was no horror in his face. No disgust at the violence I had just committed. Instead, he stepped over the body, closing the distance between us until his chest brushed mine. He reached out with his good hand, his thumb wiping a smear of the dead man's blood off my cheekbone.

His eyes were entirely black in the dim light, wild and dilated. The sheer, predatory pride in his gaze made the breath catch in my throat. He looked at me not like a fragile thing to be protected, but like a queen who had just defended her king.

"You're magnificent," he murmured, his voice a dark, simmering growl that sent heat pooling low in my stomach, making me forget the cold, the blood, and the bodies.

Before I could respond, a sharp, electronic beep shattered the moment.

We both looked down. On the pillar beside us, a red digital timer had awakened on the primary explosive charge.

01:45.

The man I killed had triggered the dead man's switch.