“Eyes open,” Mal murmurs, his voice low but firm. “We don’t know how many are inside.”
“Don’t care how many there are,” I reply, my tone flat, cold. “I’m walking out with her.”
Atlas elbows me, a flicker of teasing cutting through the tension. “Try not to blow the whole place to hell before we get her, yeah?”
I glance at him, the corner of my mouth twitching. “No promises.”
We reach the side of the lodge, pressing our backs against the rough wooden wall. Mal leans forward, peering around the corner before signaling for us to hold. I barely register the movement. My mind is locked on one thing.
Nysa.
She’s in there. And whoever took her?
They’re not walking out.
Sanford’s voice is calm, almost detached, as he peers through the scope of his rifle. “Two guards on the porch. Another circling the perimeter.”
“That’s just outside,” Fish mutters. “No telling how many are inside.”
Sanford’s finger hovers near the trigger. “Two men down,” he says. “I’ll watch your backs. Good luck, gentlemen.”
“What?” I snap, glancing at Atlas. “He’s not coming with us?”
“He’s a sniper,” Atlas replies, his tone clipped. “You want him watching your back.”
“We move in quiet,” Mal cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Fast and clean.”
Atlas rolls his shoulders, cracking his knuckles. “No mistakes.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing left to say.
We split up, Atlas and Mal flanking left, taking out the guy circling the back of the lodge. Fish and I head right, moving silently through the trees. We catch the perimeter guard before he even knows we’re there.
On the porch, two men sit smoking and laughing, passing a flask between them, completely oblivious.
They don’t even see me.
Until it’s too late.
The first man barely has time to blink before I raise my gun and fire. One shot, clean, precise.
The second lunges for his rifle, but Fish is faster, his gun already up. One more shot, and it’s over. I feel nothing. No remorse. There’s no hesitation. All I can think about is her.
Where the fuck is she?
Atlas and Mal clear the back door while Fish and I push through the front. The inside is worse than I expected—dusty, decaying, with rusted tools hanging from the walls and a smell that makes my stomach churn. This place isn’t just forgotten. It’s wrong.
And then I hear it.
A muffled noise. A struggle. A thud against a door down the hall.
And then her voice, muffled but angry, sharp with defiance. She’s fighting. She’s still fighting.
That’s all it takes.
I don’t think. I just move.
I sprint down the hall, kicking the door open so hard it slams against the wall.
