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I hear the gunshot before I see even a glimpse of a possible source. Then there’s a sickening thump. Brett has slumped to the ground beside me, blood soaking his shirt.
He’s dead before I can even gasp, much less draw my weapon to defend myself.
Then I’m swarmed. They come out of the wooded area that lines the dirt road. They were obviously waiting for us. Lying in wait. This road is barely trafficked, so it’s clear to me immediately that it’s us they were hoping to ambush.
It’s a Wolf Pack. I see the blur of a tattoo in black ink on one of their necks just before they’re on me. I fight. Of course I do. But I couldn’t get a weapon out in time, so it’s only my bare hands against four or five big men.
They don’t kill me or assault me, which would have been my assumption. In the panicked haze of my mind, I expect it, and my only thought is to get my hands on a weapon so I can kill myself before they hurt me.
But they don’t.
Hurt me.
Other than some minor blows and wrenched limbs in the struggle, they don’t injure me. My mind clears enough to figure out that this isn’t an assault.
It’s a capture.
They bind my arms behind my back with heavy cords, and two of them hold me in place as I catch my breath, clear my eyes, and try to process exactly what’s happening.
I look around. Definitely a Wolf Pack. There’s ten or eleven of them. Dirty. Foul-smelling. With pleased, malicious expressions. I’m an object to them and nothing more, which is why it doesn’t make sense for them to take me untouched this way.
Then I see someone else stepping out from behind two others, and the last piece snaps into place.
Caden.
Jackson was right about him. We never should have let him get away, knowing what he knows about New Haven.
I’m a hostage, and they’re going to use me to try to get inside our gates and ransack everything we have inside.
I scan the size of the pack again quickly, fighting back the panic that keeps rising inside me. My stomach churns, and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat, but I count the numbers and it reassures me. Fewer than a dozen of them. And they have a lot of weapons and a few motorcycles.
Not enough.
There’s not nearly enough manpower and firepower here to lay a siege on New Haven.
“You’re going to get yourself and all your buddies here killed,” I spit out at Caden, pleased that my voice is level and unbroken. “You don’t have even a chance of getting inside with these numbers.”
“I know that,” Caden says, giving me the worst sort of smirk. “But we have the secret ingredient. We have you.”
When he comes closer to me and picks up a strand of my hair, I jerk my head away hard enough to free my hair. “You’re crazy. It’s never going to work. They won’t open the gates just because I’m in danger.”
“I think you’re wrong about that. I lived with you all, remember? Jack would do anything to keep you safe.”
I’m in a weird crisis state where I’m thinking and speaking and acting almost on autopilot. Like the surface level of me is still functioning even while my deepest parts are howling in fear and despair. “I’m not wrong. You can hold a gun to my head, and Jackson will still never open the gate for you. But I wouldn’t want to be in his line of fire if you tried something so stupid.”
I’m sure I’m right about this, but Caden just laughs, so doubt creeps into my consciousness anyway.
Then he pulls his arm back and punches me in the face in exactly the same place that Jackson hit him with the butt of his rifle.
After that, the pain and dizziness overwhelm me. I don’t pass out, but I’m kind of out of it for a while. I’m slumped over, held on my feet by one gross, smelly guy. If my hands weren’t bound, I might be able to reach the gun in his belt holster, but the bindings are too strong for me to break.
When I see them drag over Brett’s limp body—part of me cries inside at the sight of him so obviously dead—and pull off his clothes, I have no idea what’s happening. Not until I’m vaguely aware of Caden putting the clothes on.
That’s when I get really terrified.
Because they aren’t as clueless as I assumed, and there is a very slight chance here of getting our people to open the gates to New Haven for them voluntarily.
My cheekbone is throbbing with pain, but my mind is a little clearer. I’m trying to work out a plan. A response. A signal. Something to make the danger clear to Gail and whomever else Jackson got to fill in for Brett at the gate.
