AllFreeNovel
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What I can’t handle is the thump in my chest, banging the danger drums.
Commander Fissure must be royally fucking pissed to lower her noble standards and join hands with the filthy gangsters she despises even more than she hates me.
“Just tell me what to do.” Dutch rubs my palm. “I’m yours.”
“Cover me, but breathe shallow, and stay at least twenty feet away.” I disarm his rifle and jam it to his chest. “Can you handle that?”
Dutch hugs the gun like it’s his favorite stuffed animal. “I’ll die before—”
“Absolutely not.” I yank him by his bulletproof vest. “They’ll tranq me, not kill me. But they’re firing live rounds at you. You stay hidden, and you stay alive. If they drag me off, there’ll always be a chance to drag me back.”
“No one’s fucking taking you from me,” Dutch snarls.
“Same.” I drop to the ground, ready to rage.
I’ve got a pack to protect.
Comms are down and the plan is fucked.
I go ghost, dropping choppers, Triad, and the slick SAS fucks who think they’re invisible running the jungle with palm fronds plastered to their asses.
Never expected Kairo to get in bed with the feds.
They’re like orange juice and toothpaste.
Like Bish and bone-in Buffalo wings.
Like Serafina Redfang and our pack.
My instincts roid-rage, knowing Sol’s out there alone, but that’s why I’ve gotta put in work.
The shadows talk to me.
I dodge tree to tree, villa to villa, weapon cache to weapon cache, unseen until I let the assholes with the scopes spot me long enough to dance them into a C4 surprise.
The weirdest thing?
The shoulder that screams by the third inning has no trouble tossing knives or bracing a rifle.
Maybe I picked the wrong job.
I kill mindlessly, thinning the hostiles pouring from the anchored carrier.
Everyone I’ve ever loved is on this island.
You want at them?
Good fucking luck.
After I clip a third chopper, I ditch another rocket launcher and take cover, clearing clusters of enemies as I circle closer to Sol’s spot.
Just before I duck into a villa, my sixth sense skitters. Burnt coconut singes my beard.
“Stop.”
My muscles deaden.
A girl stands in the middle of the path. Dressed in camo and runway makeup. Like those e-girl shills, paid to flash tits and trick incels into enlisting.
