My gut clenches. Cinches.
A bullet slams into my vest, punching me back a step, reverberations rippling through my rib cage.
Unease vanishes as the edges of my vision smear, tunneling in violent focus.
Shoot. Duck for cover.
Shoot. Duck for cover.
Another bullet bites my flank. Don’t care.
Need drives me like a bull. Have to attack.
To survive.
My forearms grow drenched in red as I punch a motherfucker in the gut—directly in his bullet wound—who refuses to die. Who wrestles me until I grab his neck and squeeze until his gurgling choke ceases.
Even Ridge has stopped shouting orders. There’s no organization. Only chaos as bullets fly. As air saws in and out of my chest like it’s made of serrated blades.
I drop the body and glance around. Seeing no immediate threat, I sniff again.
Nothing.
I press the button on the earpiece that’s under my mask. “Does anyone scent her?”
There’s a long pause.
Then a string of answers.
“No.”
“Not here.”
“Negative.”
Fist raised, I punch the concrete wall. Furious.
Feral.
Ridge’s voice is deadly calm as he says, “Bad intel.”
“Or bad intentions,” Kylian snarls in return, his ferocity in overdrive.
I can’t help but side with Kylian as a new wave of Noths surge down the hall.
Keeping a gun in one hand, I unsheathe my long hunting knife. Because bullets are no longer good enough.
I need to see blood spray.
Charging forward down the dimly lit hall, I swing into attack mode, facing off against three opponents at once as a single thought punctures my skull.
The Noth fuck we captured might have sent us here to die.
7
BRYLEE
After fruitlessly yankingat the chain that binds me to this pole, I allow myself a minute—only a minute—to freak the fuck out. Eyelids flickering closed, I tilt my head back and sag against the column, cheeks still throbbing from all the hits I took.
