Donovan O'Niel's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Donovan was still turning the live signal over in his head when the yard alarm clanged. He bolted out past the scrap-metal pavilion, boots skidding on gravel. Kira shouted something behind him. Achilles was already moving toward the gate, rifle up. A man lay crumpled against the chainlink. Blood smeared the posts in a wide handprint. His chest heaved once, twice. Clutched against his ribs was a tight roll of yellowed blueprints, rust-stained and water-warped, tied with frayed orange twine. Donovan dropped to his knees and pried the bundle loose. Vault corridors. Pump rooms. The medical wing he'd been hunting for weeks. "Behind him," Achilles said flat. Past the gate, dust kicked up off the access road. Someone was coming fast, low and quiet, sweeping wide. Not one shape. Two. Donovan grabbed the runner under the arms. The tuxedo cat in the red jacket darted from the repair shed, paws skidding, and yowled at the open gate like he understood every second cost them. Donovan hauled the body back through the chainlink while Achilles slammed the gate and dropped the bar. A round whined off the metal. Then another. Then nothing — just boots fading the other direction, refusing the fight in daylight. They carried the runner to Zelda's tent. She worked fast, hands red to the wrists, but shook her head before Donovan even asked. The man's eyes found his. He tapped the blueprints once, hard, and mouthed a single word Donovan couldn't read. Then he was gone. Kira unrolled the schematics across the cot. The medical wing was circled in shaking pencil. So was a second mark Donovan didn't recognize — a smaller room, deeper down, labeled only with a number. Donovan stood up slowly. He had the map he'd needed. He also had two shooters who knew this gate, a corpse that proved someone inside the vault was still sending people up to die, and a circled room he hadn't planned for. The job had a route now. It also had a clock.