Right behind her.
Trigger and Havoc snapped their rifles toward the sound, but they couldn’t fire —
not with Nora in the line.
Sheriff Tate swore, aiming low.
Saint dove behind the nearest concrete pillar, shouting, “How the hell did he get in—?!”
But I knew.
A third signature wasn’t outside.
It was inside.
Already in the bunker.
And I had one priority.
I moved.
Fast.
I grabbed Nora by the waist and spun her behind me just as a man stepped out from the shadowed corner —
a place so dark and quiet even the cameras hadn’t picked him up when he’d slipped in behind Sheriff Tate and me.
Sharp.
Silent.
Calculated.
He wasn’t tall like the others.
But he was broad.
Powerfully built.
Hair shaved close.
A faint scar down his left cheek like someone had traced it with a razor.
And his eyes—
Cold.
Dead.
Unblinking.
He tilted his head at me, like assessing prey.
Then at Nora.
And I swear—
the smallest smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
