The screen goes black, wiping away the image of my mother and the digital venom of Damon’s voice, but the silence that follows is suffocating. The air in the tech bunker feels too thick, recycled and stale, pressing against my lungs like water.
"Get up," Stavros says roughly, pulling me from the chair.
"We need to plan," I protest, though my legs feel like lead. "We need to find him."
"Not here," he says. "We need air."
He drags me out of the fortress. We bypass the guards, bypass the war room. He throws me into the passenger seat of his black sports car—the one we took to the safehouse. He drives fast, tearing out of the underground garage and into the night. We don't head toward the city or the port. We drive north, climbing the winding roads where the air gets thinner and colder.
H
