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Crack.
Crack.
Two more gunshots rang out into the deadly quiet.
We continued on down the hill toward the beach, the pressure behind my eyes causing tears to begin streaming down my cheeks. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried.
Probably the last time Moord made me watch him torture one of my tutors for teaching me about deciduous versus coniferous trees when I asked why some of the trees out my window lost their leaves at winter and others didn’t.
That was the last time I asked a tutor a question outside the rubric.
A rustling behind me had me turning. A gasp caught in my throat, but Zane had already whipped out his gun and fired at the man who’d emerged from the underbrush.
“A hybrid?” he asked, derision and skepticism dripping off his tone.
I tried to swallow, but it only made the jagged spike of unease in my throat jab more painfully into my flesh.
We continued on down the hill, the gentle lapping of the shore growing louder the closer to the water we got.
A few more cracks of gunshots rang out, followed by thetwit-twoo.
Zane didn’t so much as flinch at a gunshot or acknowledge the bird call. He just kept his gun up and his body in front of mine.
Rocks tinkled and shifted under our feet as we stepped off the spongy soil and onto the beach. There was a small rowboat rocking slightly, its bow on the rocks. I couldn’t see the sailboat Neffers said he was going to have, though.
Dread thudded heavily in my stomach.
They’d blown up the boat.
Or there was no boat and this was all a setup. The fact that the boys had blown up the compound was just a grave misfortune in some seriously messed-up training exercise. Or trust exercise. Moord had put me through many trust exercises over the years, testing my loyalty to him and the cause. This seemed like something he’d do to see if I would really go through with an escape or if my lack of experience outside the concrete walls of my prison proved to be too much for me and I would ultimately decide to turn around and go “home.”
Only that was never my home.
Just because it was all I’d ever known didn’t mean it was home.
None of the compounds were.
They were my prison. And Commander Moord had only ever been my warden.
Besides, the compound was a pile of cinder and ash by now, Moord’s body no more than a scrap of charred bones and singed flesh among the rubble. I had no “home” to return to even if I wanted to.
Not that I did.
I’d rather die out here, free, breakfast for a pack of hungry wolves, than go back to that hellhole torture chamber and be treated like a blood donor against my will.
Someone jumped down onto the rocks to our left, and Zane and I both pivoted quickly, guns drawn.
Twit-twoo.
Phew. It was either Rix or Jorik.
The stature was broader. It was Jorik.
He slowly made his way toward us, his gun out, body and gaze swiveling side to side. “All clear on that side,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Zane merely nodded.
“We’re not alone, though,” Jorik added.
