Chapter 71: Guilty
"How many guards total?" he asked the young woman who’d spoken first.
"Eight. Maybe ten. They rotate shifts." She swallowed hard. "The woman in charge comes down sometimes. Thorne. She likes to inspect the merchandise."
"Where’s Thorne now?"
"Her office. Third floor. She doesn’t come down here during the day usually."
Nacho processed the information, adjusting his plans on the fly. Eight to ten guards, spread across a building with multiple exits. Forty prisoners who were weak and scared and in no condition to run. And somewhere above them, the mastermind of the operation going about her day like nothing was wrong.
This is going to be complicated.
"Alright," he said. "Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to clear a path to the surface. You’re going to follow me, single file, as quietly as possible. If we run into guards, you hit the floor and don’t move until I tell you it’s safe. Got it?"
Nods all around.
"Good. Let’s go."
He led them out of the cell block and into the basement corridors, his Apex Senses sweeping constantly for threats. The guard he’d charmed was still slumped in the shadows where he’d left him. The other one hadn’t returned from the privy yet.
Lucky. But luck doesn’t last.
The service stairwell was clear. He guided the Sirens up one floor, then paused at the landing to scout ahead. The filing room was still empty, the window still ajar. If he could get them all through without being seen—
Footsteps. Heavy boots on wooden floors, coming fast.
"Everyone down," he hissed.
The Sirens dropped instantly, pressing themselves against the walls of the stairwell. Nacho positioned himself at the top, tentacles coiled and ready, as a guard rounded the corner and walked straight toward the filing room.
The man noticed him a heartbeat before Nacho’s Sovereign Tentacle wrapped around his face.
[Sovereign Tentacle effect activated. Charm multiplied by 15x. Current effective Charm: 2,145.]
The guard’s eyes went wide, then glazed. His body sagged. Nacho caught him before he could fall and lowered him to the floor, checking his pulse to make sure he was just unconscious.
"Move," he said quietly. "Through the window. Now."
The evacuation was slow and nerve-wracking, each Siren climbing through the window and dropping into the alley below with varying degrees of grace. Some of them needed help, too weak or injured to manage on their own. Nacho’s secondary tentacles proved invaluable, steadying hands and supporting weight while his eyes stayed fixed on the corridor behind them.
The last prisoner had just reached the window when the alarm went up.
A bell started ringing somewhere deep in the building, its clanging echo bouncing off the walls with urgent insistence. Shouts followed, voices raised in confusion and anger.
"They know," the young woman said, her face pale.
"Go. Get them to the eastern market. There’s an inn called the Copper Kettle. Tell the owner that the Siren sent you."
"What about you?"
"I’ll catch up. Now go!"
She went, disappearing through the window with the last of the prisoners. Nacho turned to face the corridor, his tentacles manifesting fully as he heard boots pounding up the stairs.
Five guards burst into the hallway, weapons drawn, murder in their eyes. They pulled up short when they saw him, his form wreathed in darkness, six tentacles writhing around him like living shadows.
"What the hell—"
"Evening, gentlemen." Nacho smiled. It wasn’t a friendly expression. "I believe you have something that doesn’t belong to you."
The first guard charged. Big mistake.
His Sovereign Tentacle caught the man’s sword arm and twisted, the crack of breaking bone echoing through the corridor. The guard screamed and dropped, his weapon clattering to the floor. The others hesitated, their confidence visibly wavering.
[Combat Precognition active. 4 remaining threats.]
[Recommended approach: Overwhelming force.]
"Anyone else?"
They attacked together this time, a coordinated rush designed to overwhelm through numbers. Combat Precognition showed him their movements before they completed them, painting paths of red light that his body followed without conscious thought.
Duck under the first sword. Deflect the second with a secondary tentacle. Catch the third attacker’s ankle and yank him off his feet. Drive an elbow into the fourth’s solar plexus as he tried to flank.
It was over in seconds.
The guards lay groaning on the floor, disarmed and incapacitated but alive. Nacho stepped over their bodies and headed for the stairs, his mind already racing ahead to the next problem.
Thorne. She’d know by now that something had gone wrong. She’d be calling for backup, destroying evidence, preparing to flee.
He couldn’t let that happen.
The third floor was chaos when he reached it. Clerks running in every direction, papers scattering, voices shouting contradictory orders. But one room stood out from the rest. A large office at the end of the hallway, its door closed and guarded by two men who looked considerably more competent than the ones he’d just dealt with.
[Warning: Enhanced combatants detected.]
[Threat level: Moderate to High.]
He walked toward them without bothering to hide, his tentacles coiling visibly around his shoulders. The guards tensed, hands going to their weapons, but they didn’t attack immediately.
"Lady Thorne isn’t seeing anyone right now," one of them said. His voice was calm, professional. "You should leave."
"I’m not here to see her." Nacho stopped a few feet away, close enough to strike if needed. "I’m here to deliver a message."
"What message?"
"That her operation is finished. Her prisoners are free. Her network is compromised. And if she’s smart, she’ll start running now and never look back."
The guards exchanged glances. Something passed between them, some unspoken communication that Nacho’s Mind Fortress couldn’t quite parse.
Then the door behind them opened, and a woman stepped out.
Mirela Thorne was older than he’d expected, maybe fifty, with silver-streaked black hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her face was all angles and sharp edges, beautiful in a cold way that reminded him uncomfortably of Lady Vex. She wore simple but expensive clothes, the kind that signaled wealth without flaunting it.
And her eyes. Gods, her eyes.
They were the color of dirty ice, empty of anything that might be mistaken for human warmth.
"So," she said. "You’re the one who’s been causing all this trouble."
"Guilty."