Five seconds later, the first shot cracks through the night.
Glass shatters beside me. A bullet ricochets off the hood of the car, whining into the dark.
“Down!” Dad barks.
I dive back into the car, hunching down below the dash.
Another round slams into the fender. Then another. Then three more, faster, frantic.
Henrik yells, and I hear him both over the speaker and through the dark. “He’s shooting blind!”
In the other car, I see Einar duck lower. “He’s got no aim, but seems he’s got plenty of ammo!”
The air fills with gunfire and the sound of metal piercing metal. My heart beats so hard I can’t hear the rhythm anymore. I can see Phoenix’s shadow flickering in the windows—erratic, jerking.
A crack of lightning seems to split my chest when I hear it.
It’s faint. Muffled. But I know it.
A cry.
Willow.
I don’t think. I move.
“Lucky—!” Dad shouts, but I’m already running. Sand sprays under my feet. Bullets snap past me, wild and desperate. I dive low, sprinting through the open, heart hammering so hard I can taste blood.
Someone yells my name again, but it’s miles away. There’s only one thought left in me—get to her.
I circle the cabin, breath tearing through my throat. The floodlights make everything glow white, but the back side is shadowed. I find the first window that looks big enough to fit through. I yank a fist-sized rock from the ground and shatter it through the glass, knocking a clearing big enough for me to climb through.
The smell hits first—bleach, sweat, copper.
I land in a laundry room. Old linoleum, peeling wallpaper, a basket of clothes sitting atop the dryer.
Just as I’m turning around, I hear the click of a gun behind me.
“You don’t know when to quit, do you, Saint Shade?” Phoenix says.
I turn slow. He’s standing in the doorway, shoulders shaking, gun leveled at my chest. His face is pale, slick with sweat, pupils blown wide. He might be holding the gun, but he’s fucking terrified.
“Never did,” I say. And without hesitation, I shove the laundry basket at him. It hits him in the chest at the same time I lunge.
The gun goes off—once, twice, three times.
The first round screams past my ear. The second punches into the wall. The third tears across my shoulder, hot and blinding. But I don’t lose momentum.
I barrel into Phoenix, lineman tackling him into the kitchen. He swings wildly, trying to aim the gun in my face, but I swing anelbow, locking the barrel of it. The gun clatters across the floor, skittering under a cabinet.
We crash into the counter. A plate shatters. Phoenix drives a knee into my ribs; I slam him back into the wall hard enough to rattle the wood. He grabs for a knife on the counter. I catch his wrist. The blade slashes the air between us.
I knee him in the groin, and Phoenix doubles forward. I knock the blade from his hand at the same time Phoenix shoves me back into the cabinet, the back of my head smacking against the hard surface.
We’re both breathing like animals when I hear it.
A whimper.
From the back of the cabin.
