Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
So Luka does know exactly who he’s paying for.
Great.
“Tell him I said hi,” I rasp, twisting hard.
His wrist wrenches sideways.
The knife clatters.
He drives his knee up, catching my thigh. Pain spikes, leg half buckling. My grip slips, just enough.
The knife’s back in his hand.
He goes for my throat this time.
There’s a blur of movement to my left, the familiar whump of metal on flesh.
Lark.
She comes in from his blind side, bat in both hands, and cracks him across the back of the skull.
He folds like a bad chair, collapsing against me, then to the floor.
I shove him off, chest heaving.
“That’s my bat,” she pants.
“Remind me never to steal it,” I manage.
The second shooter is still moving, crawling for the gun that landed near the overturned chair.
“Lark—” I start.
“Got it,” she says, already on him.
He swings an arm toward her, slow and sloppy. She steps in, pivoting on the ball of her foot, and brings her heel down hard on his wrist. The gun-hand slams to the floor. He howls, fingers spasming.
I hear her earlier voice in my head—weight down, straight line, no mercy—and something like pride flickers even through the adrenaline.
I grab the dropped gun, kick his away for good measure, and level ours at his face.
He freezes.
The cabin is a mess of broken glass, upended furniture, and heavy breathing.
“Two?” Lark pants, eyes flicking toward the busted window.
“Four inside,” I say. “Doesn’t mean there aren’t more outside.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows.
“How’d you find us?” I ask the guy at my feet.
He laughs, low and ugly.
“It was easy,” he says. “Of course you’d have Maddox helping you. And Luka owns his enemies.”
Maddox has enemies? Willing to talk?
“Who?” I ask.
He laughs, almost maniacally and I press the gun against his forehead. “She’s been after Maddox a while. NS-11, Serafina.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I’m guessing Dean would know. I file the name away for later. “Let’s get outta here,” I say to Lark.
He smirks. “You won’t make it past the tree line.”
A chill skates down my spine.
He believes that.
He’s not bluffing.
“Time to go,” I say to Lark, backing toward the bedroom, gun trained on him, mind already on the bag in the closet. “Grab the go-bag. Shoes. Jackets.”
She hesitates just long enough to crack the guy’s arm with the bat again.
He screams.
“Souvenir,” she says, then bolts for the bedroom. She’s in the bedroom for half a second before rushing back out, tossing me some line to tie them up with. “Here,” she says, and rushes back into the bedroom.
I keep the gun on him until I hear her yanking drawers, the thump of the duffel hitting the floor.
“Roll to your stomach,” I tell the shooter. “Hands out. You move before I’m out that door, I ventilate your kneecaps.”
His eyes gleam mean in the firelight. “You won’t shoot me,” he sneers. “You’re the little hero. The one who leaves his monsters breathing.”
My thumb flicks the safety off. “You’re right,” I say. “Tonight, I don’t have time.”
I fire.
The bullet slams into the floor half an inch from his ear, showering his cheek with splinters.
He goes pale.
“You’ll wish I’d shot you if you get up,” I say flatly, tying him up. I rush toward the other guy on the floor and tie him up as well.
I back toward the bedroom, never fully turning, gun steady until I’m through the door.
Lark’s already lacing her boots, hair yanked into a messy knot, jacket half on. The duffel is gaping on the bed—everything we came with, the tablet, the radio, spare drives, first aid kit, extra clothes, the burner phones I hoped we’d never need.
Our whole temporary life, reduced to one bag.
“Front or back?” she asks, grabbing her mask and shoving it into the side pocket.
“Back,” I say. “Tree cover. Car’s closer that way.”
We’d parked the car in the hollow fifty yards down the slope, half-hidden behind a fallen log, just in case.
“Is he dead?” she asks.
“Not yet,” I say.
“Good,” she mutters. “I want him to tell his friends we’re not easy.”
That’s my girl.
I sling the duffel over my shoulder, tuck the gun at the back of my waistband, and grab her hand.
“Stay low,” I say. “Follow me.”
We slip out through the tiny bathroom window we’d tested on day one—the one that sticks a little at the top but opens wide enough if you hit it just right.
I shoulder it up, glass still intact on this side. Cold air rushes in, smelling like wet dirt and pine.
“Feet first,” I whisper.
She swings through, dropping lightly into the ferns outside, then looks up, hand raised.
“Bag,” she hisses.
I lower the duffel, and she catches it with a grunt.
Then I haul myself through, landing beside her in a crouch.
The forest is dark and alive.
Crickets.
Distant owl.
Closer, the crunch of boots on snow-crusted leaves from the front of the cabin, voices low and angry.