“Move!” He’s already pulling me behind the overturned vehicle. We slide into cover. Bullets punch through metal above us.
My shoulder burns. I look down. Blood is spreading across the coat. The sleeve is torn where a round caught me. Clean. Through and through. But bleeding.
“How bad?” His voice is clipped. Professional. Career commander surfacing.
“Fine. Flesh wound,” I play it down.
More shots. Methodical. Someone up there has position and patience.
“Syndicate,” I say.
“Kill team.” He’s scanning the ridge. Calculating. “They knew we’d come back.”
“How many?”
“Two shooters minimum. Maybe more.”
We’re pinned. No comms. No backup. Blood soaking through my sleeve faster than I want to admit. I check my rifle. Eight rounds. Not enough for entrenched snipers with high ground.
“What are our options?” I ask, before realizing what I’m doing. Why should I be deferring to him?
“Limited.” He’s still watching the ridge. “They have position. We’re exposed. Even if we retreat, they can track us.”
“So what do you suggest?”
He looks at me, eyes steady despite bullets tearing through metal.
“Let me help.”
“No.”
“We’re pinned down. You’re wounded. They have every advantage.”
“I can handle—”
Another shot. Rock explodes beside my head. Shrapnel stings my cheek.
“You can’t.” Quiet. Certain. “But I can get us out.”
“How?”
“I can shift.”
I stare at him for a second, not sure that I heard right.
Shift. Dragon. Fire. Everything that makes him dangerous.
Everything that makes him useful.
I calculate rapidly. Wounded. Outgunned. No backup. Two barely armed against at least two trained snipers with position. I have no doubt those weapons are designed for shifters.
The odds are not in our favor. And if he wanted me dead, he’s had chances. The shelter. Last night. This morning, when I walked ahead through the forest. He could have killed me a dozen ways.
He didn’t.
I reach into my pocket. Pull out the cuff key. Our eyes meet.
“If you—” I start.
