Page 14 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

"Thirty seconds." He steps aside, gesturing down the dark corridor with the barrel of the SIG. "Move."

I don't wait for him to change his mind. I sprint down the hallway, my pointe shoes striking uneven clicks against the concrete. The dressing room door hangs ajar. I shove it open.

The room is a disaster. Costumes strewn across the floor, vanity mirrors shattered, the air thick with spilled powder and expensive perfume. A violation of my sanctuary.

My black canvas gym bag sits where I left it, tucked beneath the vanity counter. I dive for it, ripping the zipper open. My fingers dig through the contents, brushing past spare leotards and athletic tape until they close around the familiar weight of the silver compass.

A ragged breath escapes me. I clutch it, the cold metal biting into my palm, grounding me. I fasten the silver chain around my neck and drop the compass down the front of my costume, flat against my chest.

He stands in the doorway, filling the entire space. He scans the room—every shadow, every angle—then shifts that focus to the hall.

"Time's up." A low hum, all warning.

"I need to change." I reach behind my back, my fingers finding the hidden clasps of the ruined tulle skirt.

"Are you out of your mind?" His hand tightens on the doorframe. "There's a hit squad sweeping this floor in under a minute."

"I can't run in these." I gesture at my blood-soaked pointe shoes, the pink satin stained a macabre crimson. "And I can't hide in a bright white skirt. Turn around."

He doesn't turn around. He stands still, his eyes locked on mine, a storm building behind the stoic front.

I don't care. I rip the clasps open, letting the ruined tulle fall to the floor in a heavy heap. The absence of the bulky fabric leaves me exposed. I'm wearing only a skin-tight white leotard and tights, the beadwork on the bodice catching the light, the fabric clinging to every curve like a second skin.

A sharp intake of breath breaks the silence.

I glance up. His eyes are no longer scanning the room. They're locked on me. The cold discipline in his gaze has fractured, replaced by a heat that sears the air between us. He swallows hard, his eyes tracking the line of my body. He's furious about the delay, but the raw attraction in his gaze is impossible to miss.

A jolt of heat goes straight to my core.

I break eye contact, my cheeks burning. Dropping to the floor, I untie the ribbons of my pointe shoes and toss them aside. The dark athletic pants come out of the gym bag next—pulled on over my tights, covering the blinding white of the leotard. Running shoes last, the cushioned support a relief after hours of punishing exertion.

Bag over my shoulder, I stand to face him.

"I'm ready."

He blinks. The predatory heat vanishes, replaced by the operator's mask.

"Emergency stairs." He steps back into the hallway, raising the SIG. "Stay on my six."

I follow him back down the corridor. The switch from unstable pointe shoes to the grounded traction of my sneakers changes everything. I'm no longer fighting for balance. I'm ready to move.

He pushes through the heavy, steel fire door, his body leading the way, taking the doorway first. The stairwell is a steep, dizzying drop, the concrete steps spiraling down into the dark. Fluorescent lights flicker, casting erratic shadows against the cinderblock walls.

"Twenty flights." He moves onto the landing. "We don't stop. We don't talk."

He descends in silence. Despite his size and the heavy tactical gear, his footfalls make almost no sound. He glides down the concrete steps, his weapon tracking the empty space below.

I follow, matching his rhythm. My sneakers absorb the impact, my dancer's agility carrying me down the steep descent. But the exertion is grueling. By the tenth flight, my lungs burn and my thighs scream in protest. The terror-fueled strength drains away, leaving the cold reality of the night.

Andrea.

The thought crashes over me, a suffocating weight that makes me stumble. They took her. They dragged her into the service elevator while this man was dropping the point men. She's in the hands of monsters.

Guilt follows, heavy enough to buckle my knees. I survived. I'm descending these stairs, moving toward freedom, while she's trapped in a living nightmare. I should have fought harder. I should have done something.

But what could I have done? I'm a dancer, not a soldier.

I force the guilt down, burying it beneath desperate resolve. I can't fall apart now. If I break, I die here. And if I die here, no one will ever find Andrea.