Where the fuck is he?
My shoulder scrapes the rough bark as I shift position, leaning out from my cover. The woods shimmer like we’re underwater before the clouds swallow the moon and blackness veils the forest.
“Move,” I hiss through clenched teeth, waving him over. “Get over here.”
Striker shakes his head, but then he braces himself and pushes up slowly from the ground. I immediately notice the way he stumbles when he places pressure on his right foot. Panic flashes through me.
Damn it. He’s hurt.
When he attempts to take another step in my direction, his leg gives way, and he nearly collapses back to the ground. I dart away from the tree and grip his arm, tossing it over my shoulder, helping him to the shadow of the tree. Our backs slam against it, chests heaving.
“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth.
I crouch and grip his boot. “What did you do?”
“Kinda sprained it while running for my life,” he snaps, then hisses when I squeeze the leather boot, assessing the damage to make sure it’s just a sprain. “I’ll be fine. Where’s Breaker? He was right behind me.”
I let him go and rise slowly, scanning the dense shadows for any sign of movement. Breaker must be terrified and hiding. I need to find him and get all of us away from whoever keeps shooting at us.
“Stay here,” I whisper, peering around the tree. Another blast of a shotgun rings through the woods. I duck, my heart nearly punching through my chest.
Far behind us, a stick cracks, and what sounds like boots thud, but quickly fades. Is someone running away? The person with the shotgun?
“Goddammit,” Striker hisses, and the terror edging his voice mirrors exactly how I feel. He presses his fingers to his eyes. Even in the darkness, I can see the fatigue etched on his face. “We need to find him and get out of here.”
I adjust myself against the tree, trying to slow my breathing, my damp shirt sticking to my back. I’m surprised I can sweat at all. We need water. Bad. I drag my clammy hands over my pants, once again scanning the woods.
I don’t see Breaker at all.
“I think it’s just one person out here,” Striker says.
“More than one person gutted that man,” I say. “But maybe only one has a gun.”
I fucking hope.
Striker grates out a sound as he shifts next to me. “I don’t see him.”
Another shotgun blasts through the woods. My heart gallops in my chest. I grip Striker’s shoulder and drag him with me to the next tree.
“Do you think it’s Maxim?” he asks, “Out here? Doing this?”
“He’s involved somehow,” I say. I turn him to face me, and grip his shoulders. “We can’t be far from the alcove. Can you walk?”
“I’ll manage,” he says.
“You keep heading west like Breaker said. Find that alcove and stay there.”
“And what the fuck are you going to do?” Striker’s voice squeaks as panic heats the last few words, turning them high-pitched and too loud.
I clamp my hand over his mouth. “I’m going to backtrack a little and find Breaker while you move ahead.”
“That’s the worst idea ever,” he says. “We don’t split up.”
“We don’t have a choice,” I snap. “We’re going to end up with gaping holes in our chests if we don’t get moving. And I sure as hell am not leaving Breaker out here.”
Striker rakes a hand over his face. “Okay,” he says. “You’re right. I’ll just slow you down.”
I nod, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll catch up once I find him.” Leaning over, I reach into my boot to grab my knife and place it in his palm. “Go straight. Every single tree, leave a gouge knee height so I can track you. Move slowly.”
