The Prison-Made Queen novel Chapter 1005

With a brutal shove, Callahan slammed Talbot into the wall. He barked an order to the hallway: "Get in here! Detain these animals!"

His loyal operatives, who had followed him straight back from hell, surged into the room. They expertly pinned a thrashing Talbot and a screaming Reese to the floor.

They fought like feral cats, their eyes burning with disbelief and hatred as they glared up at Callahan and Leilani.

"This is impossible! You shouldn't have made it back!"

"You're not real! You have to be imposters!"

Callahan ignored Reese's psychotic ramblings, his mind flashing back to the nightmare they had just crawled out of.

*One week ago.*

*Underneath the abandoned factory.*

The deafening roar of the explosion had ripped through the air like a thunderclap. The entire underground bunker shook violently, threatening to cave in and bury them all alive.

Dust mixed with the acrid stench of sulfur rained down from the ceiling. Thick, choking smoke flooded the narrow corridors.

"*Cough*... This isn't right!" Bason yelled, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. "That wasn't just one bomb! The bastard rigged the entire compound!"

"What the hell is this guy trying to pull?! Does he want to wipe this entire grid off the map?"

As a seasoned mercenary, Bason's survival instincts were screaming. Northern Myanor was a lawless wasteland, but an explosion of this magnitude would draw the eyes of the international community.

More importantly, Callahan was the heir to the Langley Group. If news of his assassination got out, wouldn't the mastermind be terrified of the corporate empire hunting them down?

Just who the hell was pulling the strings to be this brazen?

"But so what?" Callahan continued, his voice cutting through the panic like a razor. "Nobody can account for every variable. The closer we get to the edge, the calmer we need to be. That's how we find the way out."

"Everyone, against the walls! Protect your heads!"

"Find cover. I refuse to be taken out by a coward hiding behind a detonator."

Callahan's voice was an anchor—calm, precise, and laced with absolute authority.

He stood like a monolith in the center of the collapsing tunnel. Hearing his unwavering conviction, the knot of terror in Bason's chest began to loosen.

He was right. Panicking wouldn't stop the ceiling from falling.

The absolute worst-case scenario was death—and as mercenaries, they had been dancing with the Grim Reaper for years. If it wasn't today, it would be tomorrow.