Dahlia ignores him. “If they come through, what do we do?”
I look at the pistol in my waistband. One full mag, maybe eight rounds. Not enough. “I shoot. You hide.”
She shakes her head. “I know how to shoot a gun, idiot. I’m a Don’s daughter.”
I growl, low. “Don’t argue.”
“I’m not arguing. I’m telling you.” She squares her shoulders. There’s a bloom of blood at her hip, but it’s not hers. Leaning down, she grabs the gun off Colt.
We don’t have to do anything.
Footsteps, gunshots, the thud of bodies and a holler.
“Julian and Rhett,” I say, and I’m right. We move the barricade and open the door. Seconds later they’re in the room.
Julian’s hair is stuck to his face, mouth open like he’s been running for hours. His hands drip blood and he looks rough as fuck. The skin of his knuckles is shredded, bone peeking through. Rhett’s jacket is missing, shirt torn down the center and smeared with something black and wet. His tie is still on, though—half-hanging, as if he can’t stand to be completely undressed even when the world’s on fire.
They don’t speak at first. They just look at the three of us, the blood, the dirt, Colt rasping on the floor.
Rhett recovers fastest. He kneels and snaps open the medical kit, classic Westpoint issue—zip ties, morphine, field dressings, a tourniquet. He sees the wound and doesn’t react, just tears the make-shift bandage away and sticks his fingers in to check the hole. Colton spasms, then goes limp.
“He’ll live, it’s clean from what I can tell, but he needs proper gauze and stitches,” Rhett says. “But not here. We need to go. We can head to my place, Issy will help.”
Julian paces, then flicks his hand at the air. “What about the Hunt? We leave campus, it’s an automatic forfeiture. Board will—”
Rhett cuts him off. “Half the Board is dead. We saw Abelard get his head pulped by one of the Kings. The only people still in this game are us, and whoever comes out of the woods with a pulse.”
I nod. It tracks.
Julian snorts, then slides down the wall and sits, knees up. “We need to go. Now.”
We make a plan. It sucks, but it’s all we have.
Rhett and Julian grab Colton and the groan of pain that escapes him isn’t human. Dahlia and I take point. The idea is to crossthe quad, cut behind the fencing building, then out the back and down the slope to the cabins. Four hundred yards, maybe five. If we move fast, we make it in ten minutes.
Dahlia is my little shadow, gun straight ahead, eyes never leaving the door. “Let’s go.”
Julian and Rhett are out the door first.
There’s no one in the lobby as we head through to the back. The glass doors are shot through, spiderwebbed, but intact. Julian unlocks the right one and waves us through.
The quad is not the quad anymore. It’s a battlefield.
Bodies on the steps, at least five, all wearing the Board’s colors. Most have their faces gone, flesh and bone sprayed on the white stone. Someone left a trail of brains across the pavement, like a snail. It’s beautiful.
Rhett scans the horizon, then says, “Move.” We sprint.
We hit the fencing building. It’s half-dark, the windows frosted. Staying close to the walls, we move fast. We pile out the back, into the scrubby grass, and start down the slope. The cabins are in sight. Two hundred yards now.
Gunshots, close. A figure in black sprints out from behind the garage, rifle up, eyes wild. He fires, a volley that rips through theair above us. The report is sharp and raw. I hear a round snap past my ear.
I duck, pull Colton down. Dahlia’s on one knee, sighting the shooter. She breathes in, holds it, then lets off two shots. Both go wide, but the shooter dives for cover.
Julian and Rhett fan out, one left, one right, moving with the kind of speed you only get from years of drill. Julian circles behind, pops out, and shoots the attacker in the thigh. The man drops, screams, then tries to crawl away.
Rhett walks up and cuts his throat, slow.
Dahlia looks at me, then at Rhett. “He didn’t have to die,” she whispers, spotting a Kings signet on his hand.
