"I swear, if I'm dying tonight because of you, I'm gonna haunt your ass so hard, Harrington!"
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah! I'm gonna go full Poltergeist and shit!"
"Then bring it, Graveswood."
"Challenge accepted."
***
In which after years of suppressing their...
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Chapter One-Hundred-And-Twelve: The Rescue
(E Pluribus Unum, Pt. 4)
***
Rowan's breath was held behind her teeth as she crouched behind the cart she, Dustin and Erica had highjacked, two canisters of acid in her hands. Down the corridor, around the corner, was the room where Robin and Valerie were in. Where Steve was in.
It had taken them hours to find the room—the base was a goddamned maze—but they managed to thanks to Erica. It had taken everything in Rowan to stop herself from barging in and rescuing her friends and Steve herself, to keep the plan in mind. And now, as the trio crouched behind the cart with as much of the canisters as they could take, they waited for the perfect moment to unleash their plan.
As Rowan scanned the Russian soldiers marching about as they left the corridor, Rowan saw their chance.
Turning to Dustin and Erica, she mouthed, Now.
Dustin and Erica didn't need to be told twice, as they darted out from their hiding place. Erica threw hers first, lobbing it right at the ground, Dustin following right after and Rowan finishing it off.
The glass canisters broke on impact, and the acid began eating away at the concrete with delight, popping and sizzling as smoke curled up. But Rowan, Dustin and Erica were already throwing their next canisters, until their supplies were exhausted. To do further damage, Rowan fired a thin bolt of electricity at the canisters whose glass was too stubborn to break, applying the final pressure and letting acidic hell break loose.
Once their ammunition was gone, Rowan shoved Dustin and Erica back to the cart. "Okay, that's our cue, let's move!"
They sprinted to the cart, Rowan climbing into the driver's seat and slamming her foot on the pedal as they sped down the second way to the room as alarms blared overhead and shouts rang behind them, soldiers rushing past and barely paying any mind to the American kids who highjacked their cart and threw canisters of acid like grenades or Molotov cocktails at the ground, and now speeding to the rescue of their friends.
When the door came into view, Rowan screeched to a stop as a man with a stony face and looking like the leader in charge stepped out and marched toward where the commotion was, giving them the opportunity they needed.
"Okay, let's go!" Rowan hissed and they scrambled out and rushed for the door. Rowan slammed it open with her mind, the door nearly flying off its hinges, and Dustin charged forward with a battle cry and stabbed the prongs of the turned-on rod into the shocked-looking Russian in the room. The Russian spasmed from the electricity as the leather apron he wore did little to counter the electricity, before he slumped down—dead, unconscious, Rowan didn't know and she didn't care—smoke wafting from him.
Rowan barely registered the room—the stainless steel tools of torture that had Rowan's stomach swirl with nausea, the stainless steel table, the sterile walls—because her eyes found who they were looking for, tied together back-to-back on chairs.
