"Ten minutes later."
"I'm heading in," Sam whispered, voice barely above a breath as he pressed two fingers to the receiver in his ear.
"Alright. Good luck," Peter's voice came through, rough and tense. "Remember—if it gets too dangerous, you pull out. I don't want anyone dying on this mission."
A smile tugged at Sam's lips. "Okay, pops," he murmured, just enough humour to steady his nerves.
He didn't know what waited inside that bunker—only that it wouldn't be friendly.
---
Ten Minutes Earlier
When the Tina gang had left to check on their main base, Peter's insect drone—small, efficient, and unnervingly lifelike—had crawled through the complex. Guided by Peter's remote commands, the little tech-creature scanned every corner of the underground facility, sending back grainy footage and spatial readings. The results came through to Peter's monitor, a map of red outlines and movement traces blinking softly on his screen.
That was how Sam knew where to go—and more importantly, where not to.
---
Descent
Tap. Tap.
Sam's boots made quiet, deliberate contact with the gravel as he approached the entrance. The bunker loomed ahead, half-swallowed by concrete and shadow, its steel doors guarded by two men who looked bored but dangerous.
"Sam," Peter's voice buzzed in his ear, "two guards at the entrance. Going through them would draw attention. Move right—second building. There's an air vent disguised as a manhole. That's your way in."
"Copy that," Sam breathed, shifting direction. His pulse matched the rhythm of his steps.
He reached the building's side wall, eyes scanning the cracked pavement until—
"Oh…" he exhaled. "That's clever."
The "air vent" looked nothing like a vent. It was a reinforced manhole, cleverly masked, almost blending into the ground. Whoever designed this place had thought about everything.
"I see it," he said softly.
"Good. That vent leads straight down to one of the side rooms underground. Empty. No guards, no cams."
Sam crouched, slipping his fingers under the edge of the manhole. He grunted, veins pressing against his skin as he tried to lift it.
"Argh—bloody thing's stuck," he muttered, sweat beading at his temple.
Peter's voice came through, bemused. "What are you doing?"
"The cover won't budge," Sam hissed, straining.
"Oh, that," Peter said after a pause, sounding sheepish. "It doesn't open manually."
Before Sam could reply, a deep clank echoed from beneath. Gears shifted within the ground, and the manhole split apart with mechanical precision, sliding open to reveal the narrow shaft below.
Sam glared at the opening. "You and I are going to have a very long chat after this."
Peter's nervous chuckle crackled through the comms.
Sam peered into the darkness, exhaled once, and muttered, "Well… here goes nothing." Then he dropped in.
The fall was deeper than expected. He landed hard, knees bending to absorb the impact.
"Phew," he whispered, rubbing his wrist. "Bit higher than I thought."
The space was tight—too tight. Cold metal pressed against his shoulders as he began crawling through the vent. Each movement echoed faintly, his breath bouncing off the walls.
"Bloody brilliant idea," he grumbled. His clothes snagged against the corners, fabric whispering against metal.
Peter guided him remotely. "Left at the junction… good. Now forward another five metres. There's a fan ahead—careful, it's still spinning."
Sam stopped, waiting as the fan's blades whooshed dangerously close to his face. A small flicker of light spun through the vent. He grimaced and squeezed past it, timing his crawl perfectly between rotations.
"Alright, stop there," Peter said. "You're at the drop point."
Sam squinted through the slats. The room beyond was empty.
He pried open the cover, landing softly on the concrete floor.
"I'm in," he whispered.
"Got it," Peter replied immediately. "The children are being kept in the left wing. I've disabled the cameras there and along the connecting hallways. You're in the right wing—opposite end. It's a fair distance, so move quietly."
Sam nodded to himself. "Don't worry. I've got you in my ear."
He took a deep breath and placed his hand on the doorknob. "I'm ready."
"Alright," Peter said after a moment. "And… now. Go."
---
Sam slipped into the corridor, closing the door behind him with surgical care.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His footsteps barely made a sound on the polished floor. The bunker's design was unnervingly clean—sterile metal walls, low humming lights, vents releasing faint bursts of recycled air.
He moved fast but controlled, hugging the walls, every sense sharp.
"Wait," Peter's voice snapped in his ear.
Sam froze. His heart thumped once, hard. "What now?"
"Someone's coming. Hide."
The sound arrived a second later—thud… thud… slow, rhythmic footsteps. Then laughter.
Three men.
Sam darted sideways, pressing himself behind a tall ornamental vase—an odd decoration for such a grim place, but now a blessing.
"Hahaha!" One of the voices rang out, thick with drink.
"And there she was, right next to me on the bed, mate—I thought I was dreaming!" the man slurred.
"You were dreaming," another said between chuckles. "Melinda wouldn't touch you if you were the last man breathing."
"Tsk, tsk—eh? Bric, why'd you stop?"
The third man, quieter, turned back down the corridor. "Thought I heard something," he muttered. "Guess it's nothing."
Sam held his breath, muscles taut.
A long second passed. Then their footsteps receded, laughter fading around the corner.
He exhaled, chest tight. "That was close."
"Keep moving," Peter urged. "You've got fifteen minutes before they realise the message was fake."
"I know," Sam said, already on the move.
Peter continued feeding him updates. "Half the men left for the main base. Twenty remain. Two are guarding the children's room, the rest scattered across the bunker."
"Can you lock them in somewhere? Trigger a diversion?" Sam whispered.
"Wish I could," Peter said. "But this place runs on hard-coded security. Only two rooms have any decent tech integration—and even those are barely accessible."
Sam grimaced, pausing as he heard faint voices up ahead. He ducked into a recess in the wall, waited until the sound faded, then crept forward again.
Minutes passed like hours.
At last, he reached the far end of the hall—the left wing. The door Peter described stood ahead, guarded by silence.
---
The Left Wing
"When you reach the room," Peter said, "use the passcode I sent you. Do it quickly. I've hacked the cameras on that side, but you've got five minutes before they reboot. Two guards outside the door—don't let them see you."
Sam glanced up. One of the ceiling cameras was faintly glimmering red—deactivated. Perched beside it was the insect drone, its chrome body almost invisible against the metal. Clever little bug.
"Alright," Sam murmured. "I'm in position. Where are the guards again?"
Silence.
"Pete?"
Nothing.
"Hello?"
Then—tzzzz… tzzzz.
The communicator screeched, static flooding his ear.
"Damn it," Sam hissed, tapping it twice. "Pete, come on—don't do this now."
Still nothing.
He crouched by the door, trying to think. If Pete's line was dead, he was blind. No surveillance, no updates. Just instinct.
---
Meanwhile – Pete's Room
"Sam, can you hear me?" Peter's voice echoed in panic, his hand gripping the mic tightly. "Sam, answer me!"
No response.
The signal indicator blinked red, then went dark.
"Damn it!" He slammed the table with his fist. "There are two men right in front of you—two guards ahead! If you're hearing this, stop!"
Static.
Peter stared helplessly at the monitors. The feed from the insect drone flickered, showing only fragmented images of shadows moving near Sam's location.
Then—nothing.
He leaned forward, muttering, "Come on, Sam… move!."