Page 7

I strain to catch a sound—an engine? No, it’s too low, too close.

Garcia hisses, “Movement east. Alley.”

I whisper, “Armed?”

“Can’t see hands.”

“Heading here?”

“Maybe.”

Static crackles on the radio. Blake leans in, shoulder brushing mine. “See anything?”

“No.”

Three dogs bark in quick succession. Animals know danger.

Garcia whispers, “Two males. East alley.”

“Possible breach?” Smith asks.

“Unknown.” Osbourne’s voice sputters through the radio. I settle my index finger alongside the trigger guard, Blake’s breath warm at my ear.

“Probably nothing,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” I agree.

Then, inside, glass fractures. There’s a tiny tinkling, then silence.

All I see is white light. A flash that bleaches the world to nothing. Then a wall of air, thick as fucking stone, hits my chest. My jaw snaps shut, the crack of teeth on teeth lost in the roar. The floor vanishes. I am falling up, or sideways—I can’t tell. My back meets concrete, my skull meeting it a half-breath later with a crack.

For a long moment, there’s only the vibration in my bones and the taste of powdered rock.

I blink, and I think my eyes are open, but there’s dust fucking everywhere. I try to inhale, but my chest convulses, and I cough, though I can’t hear it.

I try to push up.

My right hand presses against the floor; my body rises, then slams left.

I try again.

My right hand works; my left doesn’t.

When my eyes finally begin to adjust, I look to my left arm in disbelief, and all I see is scraps of bloody, burnt flesh and bone.

Suddenly, the dull, heavy quiet turns to high-pitched ringing in my skull.

“—monte!” Garcia or Vasquez yells.

I think I answer, “Here.”

Out of the dust and chaos, I see Vasquez, blood on his cheek, mouth moving. He points. His eyes widen. He drops beside me, hands on my arm—or where it should be.

A pain like fire catches, and I scream, only half-hearing it. Vasquez cinches something brutally tight high around my upper arm. I swat at him.

“Get off.” It hurts too much.

He grips my wrist. “Stay still.”