Page 43 of Break Out the Girl

The heavy thud of boots echoes as the staff scatter. Keeping in wolf form, I race around to the door which I expect our crew to emerge from.

Right on cue, the heavy oak side door clicks open, and out pops Aurora's bright yellow raincoat, flanked closely by London and François. Tucked under London's arm is a scrawny, dark-haired kid wielding a loose piece of piping like a baseball bat.

I drop the shift, my bones letting out that wet, heavy click-crack as I spring back up onto two feet.

“Burt!” London whispers loudly across the damp grass. “Looky, looky! We found a brand-new friend!”

“What about Sky?”

His face falls. Oh, she must be on The Carnivàle. “We need to move,” I sigh, my eyes cutting to the forest then back to the angry kid with the goat. We need to move,” I grunt, my eyes cutting to the forest then back to the angry kid. “The meeting is over, the guards will be headed out.” I grab Rory’s hand and start running for the treeline, hoping the others follow suit.

Disappearing into the deep forest of firs is a relief. All the foliage and the remains of the coastal fog swallow us whole.

“No one knows we’re on the island,” I whisper, as I keep my grip tight on Aurora’s small, warm palm. “But they noted someone called Carl is missing—must be the person you took out, François. I imagine search parties will form to find him.” I look at the child that is wriggling in London’s arms. “And they could see the kid is gone any moment."

The kid elbows London in the gut, then straightens. “Fucking doubt it,” he shrugs. “They won’t give me any food today, or a fucking bathroom break. Probably won’t get checked on until tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, Basil.” Rory says softly.

Basil. That’s the kid’s name?

Basil sneers. “Save your tears, richy. I was planning to piss on the first person who came through the door, so you idiots got lucky.”

“We must conceal the body of Carl before we deploy. Keep them guessing,” François states calmly.

“Agreed.”

We sprint back to the corrugated iron shed, moving silently through the trees.

There is a limp, broken shape of a guard in the dirt.

Working fast, me and de Vaux haul the dead weight behind a stack of industrial fertilizer sacks and heavy timber crates. They won’t find him without a thorough search.

Unless they have shifters with animal scent senses, then we’re fucked.

How to throw them off?

As I straighten up inside the shed, my eyes track to the row of red gas cans. “A distraction,” I say. “That’s what we need. Something big enough to pull every guard away from the water.”

I’ve made a delayed-fire-starter before, basically wax and wood shavings. That burns for several minutes before igniting the gas. “Anyone see any candles? I want to make a fuse, so these cans will go up after we’re out of here.”

“Candles?” The kid—Basil—snorts loudly, while waving his radiator pipe dismissively. “Are you mental? Do you people even know what you're doing?”

I narrow my eyes at the spitfire who can’t be more than eleven or twelve. “You got a better plan, kid?”

He points his pipe at an old vehicle emergency kit in the corner, then down at the concrete floor. “Road flares and motor oil. I bet the trench under this grate is a storm sluice—it’ll run straight downhill under the lawn to the mansion's foundation. If we drip the gas down there, the fumes will roll right into the basement intake vents.” He rolls his eyes, grabbing a pair of old denim jeans from a pile of rags. “Look, it’ll smolder for at least seven minutes before it blows. Just trust me, you hairy twat.”

François coughs, and we exchange a look. The kid is either cocky or a genius—or both. Terrifying street smarts.

“Get on with it then,” I grunt. “De Vaux, keep look-out.”

I puncture the bottom of a gas can with a screwdriver, positioning it over the drainage grate as the fuel starts a rhythmic drip down into the dark stone trench. Basil is already wrapping the jeans around the magnesium flares like a seasoned pro.

“Let’s do this,” he mutters.

I spark the magnesium tip. It begins a low internal hiss, eating through the fabric with a controlled, slow burn.

Good.