Salvatore’s fuel depot still smoked black from its charred bones, but the night had not yet settled. In the distance, the sound of civilian sirens began to wail, drowned out by the small explosions still ongoing from the remains of the detonators. La Heta’s shadow team had retreated far from the red zone, and now their vehicles were driving along a secret gravel path toward the rendezvous point.
Inside the cabin, filled with the smell of metal, Xavier sat with his jaw clenched. The wound on his shoulder was beginning to clot, but that wasn’t what hurt.
Not the physical wound.
It was the face of the man he had just faced in the server room.
Jonathan Crest.
His comrade for years in the interior. The man who had once held the same principles, that the system could only be saved from
