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Martin Brenner clutched his head as white-hot pain tore through his skull. The concrete floor of the silo swayed beneath him as he struggled to stand. Eleven had ambushed him—struck him with one of his own pieces of lab equipment, hard enough to drop him instantly.
The last thing he remembered before the darkness took him was the two of them arguing, his hand already reaching for the sedative meant to calm her. Then—nothing.
Now, using the tank for support, he forced himself upright. His vision blurred in and out, nausea rolling violently through him. When the world finally steadied enough to register, his breath caught.
The main door was torn clean off its hinges.
She didn’t understand. He had only ever tried to protect her—and this was how she repaid him.
Gunfire echoed through the silo. Screams followed. Brenner swayed, pressing a hand harder against his head. He was certain he had a concussion. Blood slipped between his fingers and dripped onto the concrete floor.
Through his blurred vision, a figure approached.
Lieutenant Colonel Jack Sullivan.
Idiotic imbecile.
“Where’s the girl?” Sullivan demanded.
“Not here,” Brenner muttered, his voice thick and unsteady. “Not anymore.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Sullivan snapped. “You’ll be shot on sight if you don’t start talking.”
A soldier rushed up behind him. “Colonel—we found Dr. Owens. He was cuffed to a pipe in another room.”
Sullivan turned slowly back to Brenner, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. “Did Mommy and Daddy have a little argument?”
Brenner said nothing. The migraine pulsed viciously behind his eyes as he stared Sullivan down, blood trailing down his face.
He should have had Owens killed personally instead.
Sullivan’s smile lingered, thin and knowing, as if he could read the thought plain as text across Brenner’s face. He motioned once with his hand. Two soldiers immediately seized Brenner by the arms when his knees threatened to buckle.
“Careful,” Brenner hissed, jerking against their grip. The movement sent another violent spike of pain through his skull, stars bursting behind his eyes. He steadied his breathing, refusing to give Sullivan the satisfaction of watching him collapse.
“You’ve lost control of your little pet,” Sullivan said coolly. “And now she’s loose. She needs to be neutralized. She’s already a liability.”
The soldiers dragged Brenner forward, shoes scraping against the concrete.
A radio crackled in Sullivan’s hand.
“Colonel Sullivan,” a voice barked through the static. “We’ve got eyes on a downed helicopter approximately three miles east of the silo. Wreckage is fresh. No survivors.”
Sullivan stopped short.
Brenner felt the words land like a physical blow.
Three miles. Already that far.
Sullivan lifted the radio closer to his ear. “Cause?”
A pause. Then, quieter—uneasy. “No mechanical failure, sir. Looks like it was brought down. From the ground.”
Brenner’s breath hitched despite himself.
Of course.
“She did that,” Sullivan muttered.
Brenner straightened as much as his restraints allowed. “Then you’re already too late,” he said sharply. “She’s frightened, injured, and disoriented. You need to get men out there now—with tranquilizer rifles. High-dose. Anything lethal will only provoke her.”
Sullivan turned on him in an instant.
“You don’t give orders here,” he snapped. “You lost that privilege the moment you let her crack your skull open.”
“I am the only one who understands her thresholds,” Brenner shot back. “Her tolerance. Her limits. If you pursue her with live ammunition, she will respond in kind—and you will lose more men.”
Sullivan stepped closer, invading his space, his voice dropping to a hiss. “You think this is still your lab? Your little playground?”
He jabbed a finger into Brenner’s chest. “This is a military operation. And she just declared herself hostile.”
Brenner met his gaze, blood drying along his temple. “If you kill her,” he said coldly, “you will never understand what you’ve destroyed.”
For a brief moment, something flickered behind Sullivan’s eyes—uncertainty, perhaps.
Then it vanished.
“She’s not to be taken alive if she resists,” Sullivan said into the radio. “Deploy ground units. Full sweep.”
Brenner’s jaw tightened.
“You’re making a catastrophic mistake,” he said quietly.
Sullivan didn’t look back as he walked away. “And you’re in no position to stop it.”
Bootsteps echoed sharply down the corridor.
Brenner heard them before he saw him.
Dr. Owens was hauled into view by two soldiers, his hands still cuffed behind his back, jacket torn and dust-stained. There was dried blood at his temple where his head must have struck the pipe. He stumbled slightly, catching himself just before his knees gave out.
“Sam,” Brenner muttered under his breath.
Owens lifted his head at the sound of his name. His eyes narrowed when they landed on Brenner—alive, bloodied, upright.
“You son of a bitch,” Owens said hoarsely. “You’re still standing.”
Sullivan glanced between them, irritation plain on his face. “Looks like the family’s back together.”
Owens twisted against the soldiers’ grip. “Where is she?” he demanded. “Where’s Eleven?”
Sullivan ignored the question. “You’re both coming with us. Might as well be useful.”
“She escaped,” Brenner said flatly. “And if you had any sense, you wouldn’t have pushed that nonsense into her head about fighting Henry right now. I was trying to keep her safe.”
Owens let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Safe?” He shook his head. “You still think you get to use that word?”
Brenner turned toward him, fury flashing through the pain. “Yes. If it weren’t for you, she wouldn’t be hunted right now.”
“I tried to save her,” Owens shot back. “From you.”
“Enough,” Sullivan barked. “Save the therapy session.”
He motioned sharply, and the soldiers tightened their grips on both men. Owens stumbled forward, catching himself at the last second. Brenner did not. His knees finally buckled, and only the soldiers’ hands kept him upright.
“Get them topside,” Sullivan ordered. “I want eyes on every mile of desert. She doesn’t get far.”
The heat hit them the moment they emerged from the silo—blinding sun, whipping sand, the distant thrum of rotors cutting through the air. Trucks were already moving, soldiers loading weapons, voices overlapping in clipped, urgent commands.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, Eleven was running.
And the hunt had already begun.