“It is.”
“Okay.” I squeeze her hands once more. “Then that’s what I’m going to do. Just try to stay calm.”
I step back from the cells and move into the open corridor, making sure they can see me when they return.
Slowly, deliberately, I unclip my knife and set it on the floor. Then the gun. I push both away with the toe of my sneaker and raise my hands. I back up until my shoulders brush cold concrete. Every instinct in me screams. I force myself to breathe through it.
Footsteps echo down the hall.
“In here, assholes!” I shout.
Male voices. Laughter. The scrape of boots. The guy who enters the cellblock first does so in a careless way, the way men get when they think they have nothing to fear.
“Well, I’ll be fucked,” he says. “Riker,” he shouts. “Cell block C. And it looks like we caught ourselves a stray feisty female.”
I don’t answer. I keep my palms open. Keep my posture small to appear intimidated. Let them believe what they want.
He approaches alone, swaggering, eyes roaming over me in slow appraisal.
“Hands on your head,” he says.
I comply.
His grin grows, as does his confidence. He steps within my reach.
I surge forward before his brain catches up to his sight and drive my shoulder into his chest, taking him to the ground. My knee slams into his ribs. Air explodes from his lungs.
He tries to roll and get on top of me. So I hook my arm around his throat and lock it in tight, my forearm crushing into his windpipe as I drag him backward against me.
His hands claw at my arm, shredding skin. He bucks and kicks wildly against the floor. I plant my feet as far back as I can, pouring everything I have into the hold.
His face begins to turn red. Before he loses consciousness, another set of boots pounds down the hallway. Red fades to purple, and the man I’m holding starts to go limp. He manages a wet gasp, fingers scraping desperately at my sleeve.
I keep my cheek pressed against his temple and whisper in his ear. “Don’t fight it.”
His body starts to tremble. That’s when Riker comes through the doorway.
“Let him go.” His voice is deep and commanding. He’s calm. Too calm. Second go by before cold metal presses against my skull. His gun. “I said, let him the fuck go. Now.”
My eyes flick up to Riker’s. He visibly reacts. Mine haven’t changed back to their normal hazel just yet, not completely, which has him pausing in shock.
“You’re one of them. A Harbinger.”
The pulse beneath my forearm stutters and begins to slow. The man in my arms spasms once, twice, and after the third time, his arms fall weakly to the side as the rest of his body goes limp. I push it to the side, and his dead weight hits the floor with a thud.
Riker swears. Because yes, his shock and fascination just cost his buddy his life, and by the curses he vehemently utters under his breath, he knows it.
Before I can so much as move, he grabs a fistful of my hair and hauls me upright, wrenching my neck back until I’m staring at the ceiling.
“Where the fuck did you come from and who the fuck are you?” he growls.
I say nothing.
He places the gun under my jaw. “How many did you kill?”
I give him my best smile. “All of them.”
Disbelief builds over his features. The tendons in his arm move. I jerk my face to the side so the shot he takes only grazes my ear. But another hits me square in the chest as he backs up a step.
