Tank signals. Three fingers… two… one…
Henry kicks the door.
I take in the scene. Three bodies already down. Another man—matching Shay’s description of Harry—bleeding but conscious.
He grimaces as he raises his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
Then I see her.
Sadie.
Holding a gun.
Her eyes are wide and glassy, locked on a tall blonde woman like she’s deciding whether to end her or collapse.
Clarissa.
My lungs stop working.
I take a step forward just as movement flickers at the edge of my vision.
One of the downed men rolls to his side, fingers curling around his gun.
“Sadie!”
She flinches, but I’m already moving, throwing myself between her and the gunman just as the shot cracks through the cabin.
The impact never comes.
A second shot answers the first—clean, fast, final.
I twist, heart pounding, just in time to see Henry lower his weapon, jaw clenched.
The henchman slumps. Doesn’t move again.
Silence falls.
Only the storm and my heartbeat remain.
The others fan out, Tank to my right, Tex to my left, Henry moving toward Clarissa.
“Sadie! Talk to me! Are you hit?” My voice is rough, strained, frantic.
Sadie is still holding the gun, her knuckles white, her eyes distant.
“Sadie…”
She flinches. The gun jerks a fraction.
“Hey… hey,” I say, keeping my voice low, coaxing her back from the edge. “It’s me, Dove. It’s over.”
She doesn’t blink. Her pupils are blown wide, her breathing ragged. She’s still in fight-or-flight, adrenaline drowning her.
“Sadie,” I say again, softer this time. “Eyes on me. You’re okay. You’re not alone.”
Her gaze snaps to me.
“Wyatt,” she whispers. “S-she was going to take me and…and?—”
