The garage was cold, smelled of diesel and tires, and was bathed in a dim, eerie yellow light.
The elevator groaned to a halt. The gate rattled open.
Thomas stepped out first, mag-lite raised. The garage was vast. Rows of parked cars—staff scooters, guest SUVs, and at the far end, the shuttle fleet.
"It's clear," Thomas whispered.
They stepped out, their footsteps echoing on the concrete. They were covered in grime, blood, and salt. They looked like survivors of a war that had only just begun.
"The white van," Kofi said, pointing. "The 12-seater Mercedes. It has a reinforced grille. It's the toughest thing here."
They ran toward it. Thomas jumped into the driver's seat. The keys were in the ignition—standard resort protocol.
Everyone piled in. Maggie and Lucas in the back. Jax in the passenger seat. The mercenaries and Sterling and Aris in the middle rows.
Thomas turned the key. The engine rumbled to life—a powerful, diesel purr.
"Dad," Lucas said, looking out the back window. "Look."
At the far end of the garage, near the elevator they had just vacated, a figure stepped out of the shadows.
It wasn't a Frenzy. It wasn't twitching or foaming at the mouth.
It was tall. It wore the tattered remains of a security guard uniform. But it stood straight. Its posture was calm, almost relaxed.
It looked at the van. It didn't run toward them. It just raised a hand and pointed two fingers at its own eyes, then at the van.
Then, it turned and walked back into the shadows.
"What was that?" Maggie whispered.
"The Alpha," Jax said, his voice grim. "The boss."