Dante crouched over the last charge. Fingers steady on the wires. Clay packed tight against the steel plate. Raven stood ten yards back, vest snug across her ribs, knife hilt cool against her thigh. The course sprawled fifty yards of churned dirt and razor wire. Fake walls leaned at odd angles. Blind corners waited like open mouths. Timers ticked behind every barrier.
She rolled her shoulders once. Vertebrae popped. No words. Just the low hum of the wind across the yard.
Dante rose. "Cold run. Full speed. No hesitation."
Her boots hit the mark. The first charge detonated behind her left shoulder. Dirt exploded upward. She dropped, rolled through the spray, came up with the knife already drawn. Steel flashed once. Second charge popped early. She vaulted the low wall, boots scraping concrete, lungs pulling deep. The third blast caught her mid-stride. Heat licked her cheek. She twisted, landed hard on the balls of her feet, kept moving.
A tripwire snagged her boot.
