Revenge to the Alpha Mate novel Chapter 268

Chapter 268: Chapter 268

Brett’s Perspective

Running.

Damn it all, just pure, adrenaline-fueled, lung-searing *running*. The cold air scraped my throat like ground glass. Every ragged breath tasted of iron and distant rot. My right arm screamed with a dull, throbbing ache—a deep gash from the pipe, maybe a pulled muscle. It hung useless, a disobedient ragdoll limb throwing off my balance as I stumbled over rubble and mud, almost eating dirt half a dozen times.

But all four of us were moving. Luka was on my left, wheezing like a broken bellows, but his eyes were terrifyingly bright. Scarface was ahead to the right, moving through the debris with the agile grace of a true predator. Rat brought up the rear, his skinny frame lurching but never stopping.

Behind us, the prison sirens had faded to a blurred, constant background whine. But another sound was closer, deadlier—the barking of dogs. Not the yaps of pets. This was low, guttural, the excited baying of trackers on a scent, cutting through the cold night, getting clearer.

Hell. Patrol hounds. With noses that could follow a ghost, and training to match. Joy? Excitement? That was gone. Now it was just raw instinct driving my legs.

How the hell did we get here? Rewind a few minutes, and we were still crammed in that stinking pipe, four desperate rats gnawing at steel.

Our escape plan had shifted into overdrive, a flat-out sprint for survival after the old guy disappeared. Luka was coming apart at the seams, a wire stretched too tight.

Any noise from the guards—jangling keys, distant voices, the *click* of shoes in the hall—would make him flinch, pupils dilating, fingers twitching. He was on the verge of a breakdown. Not good.

Then came dinner.

The guard we called "The Hog"—a slab-faced brute—shoved the usual slop through the meal slot in the door, cursing as usual.

Luka was sitting against the wall by the door. Maybe it was The Hog’s shadow crossing the slot, or maybe just his distinctive stench of cheap tobacco and sweat, but Luka snapped. 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

Without warning, he shot his hand through the slot. Not for the tray. He went for The Hog’s belt buckle! A move born of pure, terrified impulse.

"Where did you take him?! Am I next?!" Luka’s voice was a ragged, broken thing, edged with a madness born of despair.

It went as badly as you’d expect. He missed the belt, knocked the tray flying. That vile paste they called food splattered over him and, crucially, onto The Hog’s polished boots.

The Hog erupted. "You piece of filth!" he roared, yanking out his baton and jamming it viciously through the slot. It connected with Luka’s retreating arm with a sickening *thud*.

Luka cried out, curling around the injured limb, his face contorted in pain. Not broken, but already swelling, skin turning an ugly purple.

The Hog wasn’t done. "Open it up! Drag this rabid mutt out! Solitary! Let him cool off!" he bellowed into his radio.

My stomach turned to ice. Solitary? Easy to go in, hard to come out. It would wreck our plans. Luka might truly lose it in there. Or... be "processed."

The cell door clanged open. The Hog and another equally burly guard swaggered in, batons tapping against their palms, eyes like they were looking at livestock. Luka cowered in the corner, trembling, that brief flash of madness gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated terror.

*Screw this.* A cold voice cut through my thoughts. *We’re out of road.*

The moment The Hog bent to grab Luka’s collar, I moved. I shouted Luka’s name and launched myself from the Hog’s blind side, throwing my good arm around his thick neck in a chokehold!

I felt the choked gurgle in his throat, the instant tension in his muscles.

Luka, startled by my yell, looked up. Seeing me, the fear in his eyes was replaced by a feral resolve. He didn’t retreat. He launched himself at the other guard like a wounded animal with nothing left to lose, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist in a desperate grapple.

"Scarface! Rat!" I roared, a warning to our allies next door. They’d hear the commotion.

The cramped cell became a primal arena. The Hog bucked and thrashed, driving an elbow hard into my ribs. White-hot pain bloomed, darkening my vision. His other hand swung the baton wildly behind him, aiming for my head. I jerked back, the rubber grazing my temple—a fiery sting, a ring in my ears.

*Can’t let him swing again.*

I shifted my grip, loosening the choke slightly. My right hand shot out, fingers curling into a rigid claw, and I drove them with every ounce of strength into The Hog’s wide, furious, bloodshot right eye.

The sensation was sickeningly soft and wet. The Hog let out a scream that belonged in a nightmare, his body convulsing, the baton clattering to the floor. A dirty move. The lowest of the low. But this wasn’t a fair fight. It was survive or die.

As he clutched his face, howling and writhing, I let go, snatched up the baton, and brought it down hard on the back of his skull. A dull *crack*. He went still.

On the other side of the cell, Luka was losing his grapple, taking punches to the face. I lunged over and slammed the baton into the side of the second guard’s neck. He crumpled without a sound.

Rusted wire tore into our palms and fingers. Blood quickly slicked our grips, dripping into the foul water. Muscles screamed, burning with each impact, shocks jarring up to our shoulders. No one spoke. Just the ragged panting, the screech and groan of tortured metal, and the deafening drum of our own hearts.

Time lost meaning. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe a lifetime. Finally, with our combined, desperate strength, we tore a jagged, crooked hole in the grate, just big enough to squeeze a body through. The broken ends looked like fangs. We didn’t care.

Scarface went first, then Rat. I pushed Luka ahead of me—his arm was hurt. Squeezing through, a rusty barb tore a fresh, deep gouge in my already injured right arm. Warm blood welled instantly. Screw it. No time.

Freedom.

Cold, wild air flooded my lungs. We emerged behind a mound of overgrown industrial scrap. The prison’s silhouette loomed not far off, sirens and distant clamor still audible, but we were *outside*.

No time for celebration. Not even to tend wounds. We exchanged one look, saw the same wild resolve reflected in each other’s grimy, blood-streaked faces: *Move!*

We ran, away from the prison lights, into deeper darkness and more complex terrain. At first, we tried for stealth. But soon, the baying started.

And now, this: a flat-out, desperate sprint. The human pursuit might still be organizing, but those damn hound noses didn’t need orders.

"Run!" Scarface yelled over the wind of our passage. "We need car!"

We pounded along a dry creek bed choked with garbage, hoping the rough terrain would break our scent trail. The barking didn’t fade. It got sharper, mixed now with human shouts.

Damn, I should’ve wired that lead dog’s muzzle shut! My right arm screamed with every stride, pain flashing behind my eyes, blood soaking my sleeve. Luka’s face was ghostly pale, his breathing ragged and uneven.

We couldn’t outrun them. Not like this. We needed to tear open an escape route, just like we’d torn open that grate.

My eyes darted wildly over the dark shapes around us. Suddenly, Luka’s foot caught on a protruding rebar. He went down hard with a pained cry.

I skidded to a stop, turning back to haul him up. That moment’s delay was all it took. Several flashlight beams sliced through the darkness behind us. The baying was right on top of us.

Hell.