The gunfire was getting louder, but not closer. A hell of a battle was raging, and it was getting intenser. I tapped my tactical computer to bring up the feeds from the Busy-Bees and saw that parts of the prison had become full-tilt war zones. There were bodies all over the place. Most of the cell doors had been torn open—literally ripped from their hinges—and the corpses of prisoners lay twisted and dead. I saw one man with a distinctly Somalian face and a torn orange jumpsuit trying to crawl away, but he left such a thick blood trail that I knew he wouldn’t make it far. His left foot was missing.

There were other bodies, too. Uniformed guards, sprawled and dead, their limbs shattered, flesh ripped apart with a level of savagery that was appalling.

Then the bees found the main source of the gunfire. It was the staff quarters. A handful of guards—possibly the only ones left—were crouched behind a stack of overturned tables and chairs. Some were dressed, but most were in underwear or pajamas. A dozen of their comrades lay dead around them. They were firing at four more of the armored Fixers. I saw no Fixer corpses anywhere and wondered if that accounted for some of the explosions. Did they all wear suicide vests? Was it some variation of the “no man left behind” concept? Incineration rather than recovery? Were the explosives tied to some kind of telemetry, likely a heartbeat? If so, how’d they ever convince any of the Fixers to strap on those vests?

I wanted—needed—to interrogate one of these spooky sons of bitches, but that presented its own set of problems. They were stronger and faster than I was, and there were a bunch of them. If I had Havoc Team with me, that math would be in my favor. Top, Bunny, Belle, and Andrea were a match for any squad of killers. At least I thought so.

Backup plan was to exfil right damn now, locate their vehicle, and either plant a tracker or tail them.

But … there were a bunch of innocent folks fighting for their lives a few corridors away from where I stood. If I left now to save my own skin, I’d be leaving them to die.

Inside my head, the Darkness whispered bad things.

Let them die, it told me. Saving them isn’t the mission. Find Santoro. What else matters?

It was as real as any voice I’ve ever heard. It was my own voice painted black.

Let them die.