Jess heard sounds from the hallway. He moved toward the opening, and what started as distant running footsteps rapidly came closer. They were still in the other corridor, fast approaching the sharp corner. He exchanged a look with Glain, and without a word spoken, they moved to take up positions. He was, by common consent, the better shot, and before anyone appeared at the intersection, let loose a short burst of lethal projectile fire that chewed head-high holes in the old stonework. An explicit warning to the troops around the corner. In the next second, before the echoes died, he switched the weapon back to a stun setting—enough to put someone down, he hoped, if he scored a good shot. From his angle, he’d get the first pick of targets, and Glain would clean up.

The first man to the corner was Blue Squad leader Rollison. Troll threw himself into the opening with fearless disregard for his own safety, maybe hoping that Jess would hesitate to fire, but Jess didn’t: he planted his shot precisely on target, into the armor just above Troll’s stomach. It would, he vividly remembered, knock the wind right out of a man.

Troll dropped like a suit of empty clothes, mouth open as he gagged for air. Glain got the next soldier to appear, Jess the third. The rest hesitated and dragged their injured comrades back to cover.

“We’re through,” Santi said from behind them. “Glain, get down to the next level. Go. Now.”

“I’d rather hold this position, sir.”

“I need you to be sure our escape route’s secure. Take Wolfe with you and don’t let him resist.”

Before either of them could protest, Santi walked right past them into the opening. Into the hallway. Glain hesitated, then—as she would, being Glain—followed orders, grabbing Wolfe and pushing him toward the open dark hole in the floor.

Jess took in a deep breath and focused on Santi, who was putting his own life on the line to buy time. He raised his weapon to provide what cover he could, though if anyone on the other end decided to rain fire, Santi wouldn’t survive.

Captain Santi strode halfway down the hall and called out, “Zara?”

There was a short silence, and then Santi’s lieutenant—the green-eyed woman—stepped around to face him, with her gun pointed squarely at his chest. “Sir,” she said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You know what I’m doing. You saw the cells. Don’t tell me you agree with what they do here. What we do here. The Library is us. We allow this to happen, Zara.”

“Whether I agree with it or not, I can’t let you take prisoners out of custody! There are ways we can make protests. Channels for—”

“Do you really think that the people who made this place care about protests or channels or laws? Come here and look, Zara. Look at what they do.”

The woman didn’t answer. She stared at Santi for a long moment, and Jess couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Not at all.