Page 57 of North’s Claim

Something itches in the back of my skull.

The second comes when I clock their bikes, no road dust, like they haven’t ridden a mile to get here.

Then the wind shifts and I smell it.

Gun oil.

“Down!” I roar, but the first shot’s already tearing through the air and a prospect goes down hard, his head snapping back like a rag doll. Second one hits the other kid in the gut; he folds, screaming.

The echo turns into chaos, gunfire spraying from the dark, the metallic stench of blood flooding the air.

“Cover! Move!” I bellow, diving behind a rusted forklift. Rook’s firing back, Soul’s cursing so loud it almost drowns out the shots.

But there’s too many of them.

Too clean. Too quick.

This isn’t just a hit. It’s a setup.

A cut draped over a mirror in the shadows. Black and red. Iowa crew.

Small, dirty, desperate. And standing just beyond them, like a snake in tall grass, is Myka. He’s got that smug, lazy grin, the one that says he thinks he’s already won.

Chaos detonates.

The air fills with muzzle flashes and the metallic stench of blood. Rook’s yelling, Soul’s barking orders, but it’s swallowed by the thunder of gunfire.

The fight tightens, no room to breathe, no cover worth a damn. Soul goes down to one knee, blood running down his thigh, still firing.

Two of our own are already on the ground, not moving.

We’re losing ground, boxed in.

And then they’re on us. A blow to the back of my skull makes the world lurch. My knees hit dirt. Rough hands wrench my arms behind me, and I throw my head back, feel the crunch of bone against my skull, one bastard drops, but another slams something sharp into my neck. My fingers brush the spot and come away with a dart the size of my thumb.

The drug burns hot and instant. My pulse slams against my ribs, my vision doubling.

No.

Not here.

Not in front of them.

I keep firing, keep moving, because if I stop, if I give in, it’s over. But my arms are heavier by the second, my legs like wet sandbags.

Hands grab me. Boots slam into my ribs. My gun skitters across the floor.

I swing, elbow catching someone’s jaw with a satisfying crack but it’s sloppy. Too slow.

Another blow catches me across the temple and I stagger. My breath saws out of me. The drug’s in full swing now, buzzing in my veins, making the edges of the world shimmer.

They haul me upright, half-hanging, half-standing, my shoulders screaming from the strain. My boots barely touch the ground, enough to keep me in constant, grinding pain.

Blood drips down my face, warm trails sliding past my ear. The room sways. My vision tunnels, snapping between shadows and faces.

“Well, well,” Myka drawls, stepping out from behind a truck like he’s walking into a goddamn movie scene. His smirk is all teeth and rot. “The mighty Prez. You fight better than she did… for now.”

I lunge at him, but my body’s already betraying me. My arms jerk, slow, like I’m moving underwater.