Chapter 741
[ 490 words ]
Chapter 741:
Her body scraped up the wall, and she threw herself over the top, landing in a heap in the sandpit on the other side.
The impact sent a shockwave of agony through her system. The chemical agent, agitated by the violent movement, surged. Her vision swam with black spots. A choked, wounded sound escaped her throat.
Her hand flew up, her fingers desperate to claw at the source of the fire.
No.
The agent’s discipline, forged in simulated torture chambers, slammed a door on the impulse. Don’t break the skin. Don’t let it into the bloodstream.
She used her elbows to push herself up, a wounded wolf dragging itself from a trap. Her eyes locked on the finish line. Ten more yards.
R𝘰𝗆an𝖼𝘦 ո𝘰𝘷𝘦𝗅ѕ 𝗼𝘯 𝗴𝘢l𝘯о𝗏e𝘭s.𝗰𝘰𝘮
On the sideline, Melanie’s smirk froze, then melted into disbelief. It wasn’t possible. That was an interrogation-grade compound. No one, let alone some soft nurse, should be able to even stand, let alone move.
Caroline’s body was a twisted, trembling wreck, but she was moving. Each step was a grotesque parody of a run, her limbs moving in spastic, uncoordinated jerks. But she was getting faster.
“Caroline!” Brenna’s voice, raw with tears, cut through the haze. She was at the edge of the course, her hands cupped around her mouth, screaming encouragement.
Caroline couldn’t hear her. The world had gone silent again. There was only the pain, and the tall, dark figure at the end of the track. Her lighthouse in a storm of agony.
Three steps from the finish.
Her left knee gave out completely. The signals from her brain were no longer reaching it. She pitched forward, her body losing its fight with gravity.
But even as she fell, she used the momentum. She launched herself forward, a desperate, flying dive.
Her shoulder slammed into the red ribbon of the finish line, snapping it.
The timer let out a long, piercing shriek.
And Caroline’s body, like a puppet with its strings cut, crashed onto the hard-packed dirt beyond the line.
The dull thud of Caroline’s body hitting the ground was a detonator. It blew away the last shred of Jarrod Romero’s control.
“Get a medic!” Major Nash started to yell, but the words died in his throat.
Jarrod was already moving.
He did not vault the barrier. He couldn’t. The heavy medical brace still locked his right arm across his torso, and his splinted left hand hung rigid at his side, useless for anything that required force. Instead, he went through the open gate with a lethal, ground-eating stride, every step controlled, every line of his body radiating silent fury. The base’s strict fraternization protocols, the unbridgeable gap between a colonel and a recruit, evaporated in the heat of his rage.
Two medics, junior enlisted men, started to run toward Caroline, but they skidded to a halt as Jarrod’s presence washed over them. It was a physical force, a wave of pure, concentrated menace that made the air crackle. They instinctively backed away.
“Move,” Jarrod said.
The word was quiet. It was also absolute.
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