Moving silently, I stand from the cot in one fluid motion, sidearm in hand, with my breath locked tight in my chest. A final slice, and the flap peels back, just enough for a figure to slip through. In the dim light. He’s nothing more than a tall, broad-shouldered shadow He moves with purpose, straight toward the cot in the rear corner.Straight toward Reese.
He’s only two steps from her when I fire a shot, too quiet through the silencer to wake those nearby. It tears through his bicep with a pained and startled hiss. As he rushes toward me, I surge forward, hitting him side-on with my full weight. He crashes to the ground, hard. A grunt tears from his throat as he lands on the bullet wound, but he quickly clambers to his feet, knocking over a stool and pulling Reese’s blanket from her cot.
The knife in his hand glints faintly in the dark. He lunges, fast. Faster than I expect. I dodge it just in time, the blade slicing past my shoulder and snagging the edge of my shirt. I swing my gun, landing the butt of my pistol on his wrist. The crunch of bone echoes around the tent as his knife clatters to the floor at our feet.
He snarls and punches upward, catching me under the jaw. My head jerks back, stars exploding behind my eyes.Swinging again, I’m knocked off balance. Lunging at me, he uses the moment of weakness to bring me to the floor. We hit with a thud, my gun dropping from my grip and clanking across the floor. He rushes on top of me, pinning my arms with his knees and scrambling to grab for the knife.
I twist, using the momentum to roll us over. He grunts but doesn’t stop fighting. His elbow hammers into my side as he shields his face from my fist. He catches my wrist and shoves back. We fight for control, locked in a brutal stalemate. His thumb presses into my eye socket, and my white-hot pain explodes across my vision.
I slam my forearm into his throat, restraining him, and drive my other hand toward his face. My knuckles split on his cheekbone, blood splattering over the two of us. We roll again, closer to the wall of the tent. He pushes me away from him. I reach for him, but my grip slips on his bloodied arm.
His knees drive into my side, and I wince as the wind blows from my lungs. He shoves me from him, scrambling across the floor for my gun. As I race to catch him, my hands and knees scrape across the floor.
He raises the gun. Not at me, but at Reese. I dive at him, the two of us landing across her cot. I don’t think, lifting the knife on sheer instinct. The steel sinks deep as I drive the blade into his back. Once. Twice. A wet gurgle rises from him as screams billow from Reese. The man’s body jerks beneath me, but I don’t stop.
The only way I can guarantee he can’t hurt Reese is if he isn’t breathing.
I grab him by the collar, tearing his head backward and plunging the knife into the crook of his neck. Blood spills from the wound, splattering across the cot beneath him. His breathing slows until he goes still, then limp, beneath me.
My chest heaves as I stand, pulling him with me and dropping him to the floor. I release the crimson-slicked blade, letting it clatter to the ground beside him. My hands are stained, and my shirt sticks to my skin where it’s soaked through with his blood.
Gunnar bursts into the tent with his pistol drawn. Hastily, his eyes rake over the room, checking for threats and assessing the damage. “I heard her screams,” he blurts, his tone softening as his eyes reach Reese. He stands beside her cot silently, breathing heavy, his dark eyes suddenly grim.
She is sitting at the head of the cot, her knees tucked to her chest and arms wrapped tightly around them. Her pale face is speckled with blood.Hisblood. It drips down her cheek as she stares up at me through tear-dampened lashes. She is a mess. Her blonde hair is splattered red, and her pajama shirt is soaked through with him.
I take a step toward her, and she flinches, causing me to stop cold. “Reese,” I whisper softly. “It’s over. He’s dead.”
She looks up at me, nodding like she hears the words, but doesn’t believe me. “I’m okay,” she mumbles, but it’s a lie. Her voice trembles as her eyes flick to the body on the floor, then away. “I… I didn’t… He was just there.”
“I know.” I look down at the man. He lies face down in a puddle of blood already seeping into the plywoodfloor. Turning my attention back to Reese, I promise, “You’re okay.”
Still, she stares past me.
I kneel slowly in front of her. “Can I?” I outstretch my hand to take hers, waiting for permission. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t pull away or tense when I move closer and take her hand in mine. “You’re safe, baby.”
The tent feels too small to breathe in. The air is heavy—blood, canvas, and silence pressing down on all of us. My skin feels tight, sticky with a dead man’s life, and my heart hasn’t stopped racing since the gunshot tore me out of my sleep.
He killed him.
Gingerly, Chris grabs my hand. His is warm—and wet—as it wraps around mine. He gives it a squeeze, firm yet tender. “Reese,” he whispers, dusting his thumb over the back of my hand as he repeats my name.
Looking down at my lap, I stare at my fingers laced with his stained ones. He didn’t just kill the man who came into our tent. He did it to save me.For me.
“Come on,” he gently urges, rising from the floor. He tightens his hold and helps me from the bed. Sweeping my legs over the edge, I cringe when my foot lands in a warm puddle. I refuse to look down, trying to ignore what I know I’m standing in. My legs falter beneath me, and Chris wrapshis arm around my waist to steady me. “You’re doing so good. Let’s get you out of here.”
He leads me to the entrance, where Jagger stops us at the flap. “Go take care of her,” he says quietly, pressing a small canvas bag into Chris’s hand. “We’ll take care of this.” Chris nods once, his free hand wrapping around the handle of the bag before guiding me into the night. The air is cool, but it doesn’t feel comforting. His other hand stays on me, steadily leading me as we step out into the night.
The base is eerily silent after our commotion. It’s all I can think about as Chris weaves me through the rows of tents. His fingers are laced with mine, ensuring I stay close with every step he takes.
When we reach the latrine, he pushes open the door and flicks the light on. It hums weakly, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. I stop just inside, staring down my body to the tiled floor. The blood has already begun to dry on my arms, dark and crusted at the edges.
Chris twists the knob until water pours from the showerhead in a steady stream. The running water echoes faintly from the pipes above. I reach down to the tacky shirt sticking to my skin. My throat thickens, and my hands tremble slightly, struggling to find the courage to grab it.
Chris sets the bag down and turns to me. When I glance up at him, his eyes are so soft and tender. “Reese?—”
I shake my head before he can say anything else. “I can do it.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us.
