Uri doesn’t move, clinging on to Markus, his prayers switching between English and Russian.
I rush over, roll Markus over slightly, run my hand over his back—and pull my hand away, soaked in blood.
“It went through clean,” Alana says, reaching into her bag.
She unzips a hard case and extracts a vial of something and a hypodermic needle. Cradling his head, she brushes her thumb against his cheek, but it only smears the blood, making it worse. “You’re going to live—but it will hurt.”
Markus understands. I see it in his eyes—panic, pleading.
“No. Please… don’t. No.” He reaches and grips her arms.
She soothes him with a look. Then—without hesitation—drives the needle straight through his shirt.
The scream that rips from his throat is inhuman. Primal. Raw. Shredding his vocal cords. It’s the scream that brands itself into your memory. One you can’t unhear.
Alana starts counting. “Ten seconds. Nine…”
Markus writhes. She continues to count down.
“You’re killing him!” Uri yells, but it’s drowned out by another inhuman howl.
“Five, four…”
Each second is like an endless loop of slow-motion pain.
Alana preps a second needle, but Markus’s body convulses, and he kicks the bag out of her hand.
“Two, one…”
Then—needle two. She plunges it into his neck and the screaming stops.
His eyes roll back, and he’s gone.
Uri’s face twists with hatred and betrayal. “What the hell did you do to him?”
Alana doesn’t answer. She slumps back against the wall, sliding down to the floor, chest heaving, her face hollowed by pain and exhaustion.
“The first shot,” she rasps, “heals with nano technology. But it needs adrenaline to course through the body. It needs pain. The second one… It knocks you out, shuts the brain down. He won’t remember. He won’t feel it.”
Uri’s lower lip quivers. “Will he be okay?”
“His heart wouldn’t be able to handle the pressure without the second shot. He still needs medical attention.”
Uri and Dimitri lift Markus, carefully carrying him toward the med bay—if that’s even what it is.
Lance is silent as he covers Mellisa with a blanket from the break room. The hall sounds too quiet after the screams still ring in my ear.
Izzy wraps her arms around Katya. Katya and Markus were teammates in Russia, now back in America and working for Mastodon. Katya’s not a warrior like Alana, and she accepts the hug and support.
Donny stands in the doorway watching everyone but turns away when he sees the stains on the floor. My hand is sticky from the drying blood between my fingers. Violence is nothing new, but we were attacked twice in our home. And the women saw it all. Fuck.
In the chaos, Jenny picks up the case Alana dropped. She stands frozen, staring. There’s fear on her face, a kind I don’t recognize. She kneels. “Alana,” she whispers. “How long ago did you take the first shot?”
Everyone goes still. The memory of Markus’s screams still echo in the air.
“Forty-five minutes,” Alana whispers.
That’s when I see it—her black shirt soaked darker around her midsection.
