“Then we make it costly.” I reloaded, slammed the bolt forward, and bared my teeth.
Because if Raine was out there in someone else’s crosshairs, then I’d turn this ridge into a graveyard before I let these bastards take another step.
21
Adam
Rounds snapped overhead, ripping branches, spraying mud across my face. The ridge had turned into a damn shooting gallery.
“Left flank!” Russ barked.
I pivoted, sighted, and squeezed. One hostile dropped, but three more surged from the trees, masks gleaming wet under the floodlights. Organized. Coordinated. Trained. These people wanted all proof of their sinister deeds gone.
Not scavengers. Not looters. Soldiers. Mercenaries.
“Fall back?” Hawk shouted, already bleeding from a graze along his arm.
“No,” I snarled. “We hold.”
“Adam—” Russ started, but I cut him off.
“Boone’s not here. Raine’s not here. We hold until they’re clear.”
The comm crackled—Boone’s voice again, strained, engine roaring in the background.“Stoker, they’re on us—pushing hard. I can’t shake ’em.”
Raine’s voice cut in behind his, fierce and unyielding:“We’re not running forever. Tell your men to hang on, Adam.”
My chest clenched. Every instinct screamed to break from this ridge, chase after them, put myself between her and every bullet out there. But I couldn’t. Not yet.
The masked men pressed harder, fire raining down from the treeline. I dropped another, then another, but we were running thin—ammo, cover, patience.
Blade slipped back into position beside me, knife slick with blood, voice calm as if this was another day at the office. “This isn’t random. They’re testing us. Seeing what we’ll give up to keep what’s ours.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Hawk snapped, firing a wild burst.
“Hell if I know, it felt the right time to say something.”
I shook my head and shoved it down. I chambered another round and pushed up to fire. My voice roared across the comm. “Boone, Raine—hold tight. We’re not losing anyone tonight.”
Not on my watch. Not again.
22
Raine
The Jeep fishtailed hard, tires struggling for grip on the waterlogged road. Boone wrestled the wheel, cursing under his breath as the two sets of headlights grew larger in the mirrors, closer with every second.
“They’re gaining,” he muttered.
No kidding. The growl of their engines vibrated through my chest, louder and hungrier with each turn.
I twisted in my seat, rifle braced against the window frame. Rain streaked the glass, but the outlines of the vans were clear—dark hulks cutting through the storm.
“Keep it steady,” I snapped.
Boone snorted. “Sweetheart, this is steady.”
The first van swung wide, trying to box us in. I leaned out the window and squeezed the trigger, muzzle flash lighting the cab. The windshield spiderwebbed under the shot, and the van jerked, skidding into a ditch.
