Mud clung to my boots like chains as I dragged Boone higher onto the embankment. His weight pressed heavily against me, every groan from him a reminder that he was alive—but barely.
The mother stumbled close behind, clutching her son to her chest, his small arms still wrapped tight around her neck. His thin cries cut through the storm, raw and terrified.
“We can’t stay here,” I said, voice rough, pushing wet hair out of my eyes. “The water’s rising. And what if they come looking?”
Boone coughed, spitting river water into the mud. “You think those bastards are done? Not a chance.” He winced, but the corner of his mouth still tugged into a weak grin. “Good thing I’m too damn mean to die. And that I have a great swimmer as my teammate.”
“Not funny,” I snapped, adjusting his arm over my shoulder. My ribs screamed, but I gritted through it. “We need cover.”
The mother’s wide, fearful eyes lifted to me. “Where?”
I scanned the treeline—shadows shifting in the storm. Lightning flashed, revealing a half-collapsed barn farther up the slope. That’s when I spotted the man lying facedown on theground ahead. I stopped and helped him to stand. The barn's roof sagged, one wall bowed, but it was better than nothing.
“There,” I pointed. “Move.”
Every step was a battle. The boy clung tighter to his mother, Boone leaned heavier into me, and the storm battered us all like it wanted to finish what the river had started. But inch by inch, we reached the barn.
Inside, it was damp and half-rotted, but the walls blocked the worst of the rain. I lowered Boone against a beam, his breath ragged but steady. The mother curled with her son in a corner, whispering reassurances. The old man looked around, shaking his head.
For a moment, I sagged against the wall, every muscle trembling. My body begged to collapse, to shut down. But my mind wouldn’t let me.
Because I could still hear the gunfire in my head.
Adam was still out there.
Alive or not—I didn’t know. And the not knowing was tearing me apart.
I pressed a hand to my ribs, tasting blood in my mouth, and whispered to the storm.
“Please… let him still be fighting.”
37
Adam
The ridge was gone. Not the dirt or the rock—but the illusion of control.
My pistol clicked empty, useless in my hand. Hawk was swinging his rifle like a club, cursing with every blow. Russ had gone quiet, focused, using each bullet like it was the last breath of the world. Blade was a shadow among shadows, his knife flashing quick and brutal.
But they kept coming. Masked, relentless, disciplined, they had to have been on some kind of drug. Is that how they had so much control of these mercenaries? They loaded them with drugs to keep them working for them.
One broke through the line, slamming into me. We hit the mud hard, his weight crushing down. His hands clawed for my throat. I twisted, headbutted him once, twice, felt bone crack under my skull. He faltered—long enough for me to rip the blade from my vest sheath and drive it home.
Hot breath, rain, and blood filled the night. I shoved him off, chest heaving.
Another came at me. I ducked the first swing, took the second across the ribs. Pain exploded, white-hot. I staggered,then slammed my elbow into his jaw, following with a brutal kick that sent him sprawling into the mud.
“Adam!” Hawk roared, hurling another body off him. “We’re not gonna hold!”
I knew he was right. But the thought of falling here—of Raine never knowing if I was alive—ignited something savage in me.
I straightened, mud dripping down my face, blade tight in my hand. “Then we take as many of them as we can.”
Russ’s calm voice cut through the storm. “Stoker—behind you.”
I spun. Too late. A rifle butt slammed into my skull. The world tilted, rain blurring into black.
I dropped to one knee, stars exploding in my vision. Hands grabbed me, dragging me down into the mud.
