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I’m praying he’s not down.
Triad trash give away their locations with their dying, shrapnel-blasted groans. The SAS agents are more stealth, but my dominance hammers through the jungle, freezing alphas just long enough to line up my shot.
Aim, fire, kill.
Everything turns red and green.
Blood and leaves.
Then I find Bish pinned by Triad soldiers and red is all that’s left.
Three guys fire into a hole-pocked villa.
I roar.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Before the bodies drop, I’m leaping through the door, heart not just in my throat, but pounding in my chest and lungs. “Bish?”
There’s a rustle in the rafters.
“Almost fucking ganked by a grown man wearing velour.” Bishop pops up, straightening his hair under the helmet with a quarter-sized ding in its forehead.
Too fucking close.
“Marisol?” I steady him when he jumps down.
Bishop knocks away my hand. “She went next door to visit Dutch. Then I lost video.”
It’s better they’re together than alone, but my adrenaline churns. Nothing’s worse than being helpless. Not fucking knowing where my people are.
”Cover me. We’ll track from their last-known location.”
Bish shakes himself, reloads, and follows me, ready for fucking war.
I run toward the gunfire.
Strange perfumes crisscross the jungle. Too sweet, then too sour.
Suddenly, the constant drone of chopper blades changes tone.
“Bird landing,” Bish mutters.
“Wyverns?”
“They’re at least twenty minutes out.”
“Hurry.” I give up on stealth. But even at full sprint, I can’t outrun the chopper.
We hit a pathway soaked in sour coconut just in time to watch a helicopter rising over the trees.
“Too late.” Bish’s voice punches my lungs.
I can’t see Marisol, but I can feel our mate slipping away.
