In slow motion, Mahmoud grimaces at the pain in his leg. Rodrigo confers with Sergeant Taylor. Daniela looks down on Mahmoud, her bottom lip between her teeth. Princeton checks his weapon.
And Tekqua.
Tekqua is looking at me.
Bright gaze. Hard mouth. Determined brow.
I want to reach for her, to hug her.
My arms won’t move.
“Alright, squad,” Sergeant Taylor says as time resumes. “Let’s regroup.”
Outside the small space, another explosion rocks the street, close enough to shatter the front windows of our building. The coffee shop across the way is pandemonium, the fight spilling into the street.
Screams for help rise above the bullets and explosions.
“We push now,” Sergeant Taylor barks. “Hit ’em hard!”
No, I think.We can’t go in there.
But it’s no use.
Weapons in hand, we burst into the fray. Inside the shop, Hunters outnumber Defiants two to one. They fight with handsand knives, their firearms likely discarded or empty. Bodies litter the floor.
Two Hunters corner one soldier. He raises his hands to surrender, and one Hunter sinks a blade into his stomach while the other laughs and spits in his face.
I shoot them both.
Then I run, barely skidding around the corner to the bathroom before the bullets chase me. I try to sneak a peek at the fight, but my gaze falls instead on a grisly sight.
Bodies hang from the ceiling. At least a dozen, stripped bare, with Brotherhood Crosses cut into their backs.
BloodyBrotherhood Crosses, meaning they were carved while the victims were still alive, while their hearts still pumped blood to the injuries. These are residents of Safe House Red. An old man. A female amputee. Two—no, three—children.
If I had anything in my stomach, I would puke it all out.
This isn’t just cruel.
This… this is atrocious.
Gunshots jerk me back to the present. Princeton enters my field of vision, retreating from a Hunter who has him at gunpoint. My heart throbs twice in my chest, and I rush forward. Gun raised, I watch the Hunter’s eyes widen.
“Wait—”
My bullet snags his throat.
“Thanks,” Princeton wheezes.
The word has barely left his mouth when Rodrigo shouts, “On your right!”
Two Hunters have firearms trained on Princeton and me. “Fucking traitors!” they spit.
My brain sticks on that word.
Traitors.
I’m not the traitor. They are. They’d declared war against the United States and destroyed it. How could they not see that?
