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Pin-cushioned and fading, they can’t keep pace ripping out the needles. As my heart slows to a sloshing chug, they drop.
Camouflaged figures ooze from the trees. The smallest one breaks formation.
“Medic!” Commander Fissure races to Elyse. “Get her on a ventilator. She has a pulse.”
The air goes sludge.
My thoughts foam.
Even then, the drag is too slow. I’ve been hit so many times, I should be a puddle, but my consciousness holds.
I put on one last show, closing my eyes and falling to the ground before the knock-out drugs shut me down.
Then I watch.
Predictable as shit, SAS agents swarm to save their favorite gamma. Dutch and Reese sag forgotten in the dirt.
They’re just sedated.
They’ll live.
I vaguely hear a helicopter landing.
“Secure Twenty-Six.” Bridget’s voice echoes down a well.
“And the males?” Silas answers, fading.
“Leave them for the Triad. We’ve accomplished our objective.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Rough hands haul me into the chopper. I’d smile if my body weren’t so far away.
Meadows Pack will survive.
So will I.
I’ve got the drug tolerance of a pissed-off elephant and no more reasons to play sweet and follow the rules.
If the SAS wants me to be a weapon?
Let’s fucking go.
I’ll bring the fight to them.
We wired the island with enough charges to roast Kairo’s cannon-fodder soldiers or deflect a special forces assault.
Not both.
All these years of scheming an escape from my father’s world, and I never would’ve called the Triad coming after us with a military assist.
Now we’re desperately outgunned, and I’ll claw out my own fucking bones if my lack of foresight hurts my family.
With no answer on comms and no more explosives to blow, I abandon cover.
Bishop’s sniper nest is closest to my position.
I’m praying he has eyes on Marisol.
