I stare down at what is left of Knox, the man who darted me, dragged me, hunted me, and thought I had broken.
He was wrong.
Seth comes up beside me.
He pulls the machete from the gear bag.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He plants a boot on Knox’s shoulder and grabs a fistful of hair.
“For later.”
He lines the blade at the base of Knox’s neck and swings.
The first strike cuts through muscle and catches bone.
Knox’s head shifts but stays attached.
Seth adjusts his grip and brings the blade down again.
The second strike finishes it.
The head comes free.
Blood spills across the floor in heavy streams.
Seth lifts it by the hair and drops it into a sealed evidence bag he has prepped. He twists it shut and cinches it tight with a zip tie.
Then he wipes the machete on Knox’s towel and turns back to me.
I meet his eyes.
He looks at me like he is seeing me for the first time. Blood on my face, gun still warm in my grip, the shadow of my last shot still lingering in the smoke.
Pride burns in his expression, mixed with admiration and hunger. He steps toward me and grabs my wrist.
“Come on.”
Then we are moving.
We scan the hallway, my weapon still raised, hearts still hammering. Seth keeps one hand on my back as we run. Past the bodies. Down the marble corridor slick with blood. Through the open foyer.
The front door slams behind us, the echo chasing us down the stone path as gunfire residue clings to the back of my throat. My heart pounds like it hasn’t caught up to the fact that Knox is dead.
The SUV’s headlights slice through the dark, casting long shadows across the trees as the engine growls low, the sound vibrating in my chest. Travis waves us in with wild eyes like the house behind us is seconds from detonating.
Beau sits in the passenger seat, sniper rifle in his lap, gaze locked on the treeline.
“Move!” he barks.
Seth’s hand locks around mine and yanks me inside. The door slams. The tires screech. The SUV fishtails just enough to spit gravel as we speed into the black.
I haven’t taken a full breath since the second Knox hit the floor.
My legs feel like rubber and lead at once. I'm still wired, still wound, still tasting the gunpowder on the back of my tongue.
Seth sits in the corner of the back seat, legs spread wide, chest rising hard with every breath. Blood-slicked shirt clings to every inch of him, soaked through and sticking to the sharp lines of his body. His eyes are dark, feral, locked on me. He looks like they haven’t blinked in minutes.
