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She struggles for my gun, lashing out with her best sucralose. Fueled by adrenaline, instinct, and a lifetime of stuffed-down rage, I hit back.
Clawing and punching.
Freaking venting so many years of complaints.
As the supercharged sedative invades her system, Bridget’s fight dies. I knee her in the stomach, driving the darts that much deeper.
Bridget drops. A punching bag cut from her chain.
Planting a foot on her ribs, I unload the leftover tranqs in her throat. When I’m squeezing the trigger, I can’t even feel the heat.
Commander Fissure is built small and she hasn’t been training her chemical tolerance. After a few seconds, she topples.
Then I almost freaking topple.
The gun clatters from my fingers, leaving me gasping in the silent garage.
As adrenaline fades, sedatives and suppressed sex hormones take turns setting me on fire and begging me to curl into a ball.
Have to run.
Hurry.
With a one-finger salute for the security cams, I drag myself to the closest vehicle. Not a tank, because I can’t make it that far, but some camo-colored modified military Jeep.
Sitting is worse than standing. My knees shake with every cramp, and the windshield glass ripples as I sweat.
Definitely shouldn’t be driving.
But I’d rather take a wrong turn off a cliff than wait for the next alpha team to show and take me down.
They’ll be better armed.
And I’ll be fucked even harder.
I hit the gas and tear out.
My iffy vision tunnels to a strip of dark pavement, but that’s enough to get me moving. I follow the lane into a war zone.
Helicopters scream through the sky, and the red smudge in my rearview mirror isn’t the heat frying my brain—the base is in flames.
Fences are down and figures in black camo dart between buildings. Flattening the gas pedal, I gun for the green stretch of trees and my last chance at ever escaping.
I tear through the downed gate, onto the tree-lined road, but I can’t see the yellow lines through the pain and my shakes veer the car side-to-side.
Well, shit.
I need to go easy on the gas, but I’m out of time and brain cells, with cramps and shooting pain tag-teaming my overheating brain.
A scream cuts through the blur—a person darting into the road. “Sol!”
I can barely squeeze the wheel, but I recognize her.
Someone I could never hurt.
I brake. Swerve. The tires hit the edge of the pavement, then everything flips and whirls.
Guess who forgot to buckle their seat belt?
