The alarms weren’t loud — not the blaring kind from Hollywood films — but a deep, pulsing hum that vibrated through the walls like a warning heart monitor. Low, controlled, lethal. The kind that told trained people to move and untrained people to panic.
Adrian was already moving.
“Elena — stay close.”
The red emergency lighting painted his face in sharp, carved shadows as he crossed the room to the reinforced panel behind the kitchenette. He punched in a code. A hidden compartment slid open, revealing a locked tactical case.
“This safehouse was supposed to be off-grid,” she said, pulse racing. “Someone had to give our location.”
“Correct,” he said grimly. “Which means this isn’t a raid — it’s a handover.”
“Handover?” her voice caught.
“They don’t need to storm in if someone lets the
