Nila.
Jasmine.
Kestrel.
Even Wings.
My life story flickered pitifully lacking and empty of experience.
And then...it was over.
As suddenly as the gunfire began, it ceased.
The silence was almost as deafening as the shots.
A howl replaced the bullets, growing in decibels as the seconds ticked on.
I looked up.
Marquise.
He lay on his back, his hands glued to his chest where multiple red spots bloomed on his t-shirt. I couldn’t unravel what’d happened. It was just us in the room. No one entered. No more firing.
I looked at the open door. The wooden frame had dings and splinters from a spray of firepower, but the exit remained empty. Within the depth of the mine, feet pounded, guns erupted, and the sounds of a battle exploded out of nowhere.
What the fuck is going on?
Marquise’s howls slowly turned into moans. The soil beneath him accepted his blood like a tree accepts fresh rain, sucking it deep into the ground.
I put up a blockade between him and me. I didn’t like the guy, but couldn’t help sharing his pain as he died in front of me. Death was private, and I had no intention of participating in his final moments.
Somewhere in the mine, a war had broken out. I didn’t know who was on what side. I didn’t know if it would work in my favour. But I did know I’d been granted a second chance; I wouldn’t waste it.
Kicking, I somehow managed to rock sideways, propping myself awkwardly on a fulcrum of brittle chair leg. My shoulders sagged in relief, but the way I repositioned put immense pressure on my chest and ribs from the ropes.
I couldn’t suck in a deep breath as I jerked and twisted. The chair cracked and groaned, fighting against my encouragement to break.
Footsteps suddenly sounded closer, scuffing pebbles and belying numbers.
I froze.
Sweat dripped off the end of my nose as I squirmed harder. If they werenew enemies, I couldn’t be there still fucking tied up when they—
They entered the cave.
Five men poured inside, blocking the exit. Their dark skin sucked the meagre light from the lamps, the whites of their eyes hell-bent and focused. The rifles in their hands were old but still capable of murder.
I glowered, drinking in their warrior thoughts and violence. One of the men moved forward, scuffing the blood-soaked dirt where Marquise lay.
Marquise erupted to life, pulling a pistol from his pocket and firing. His aim struck one of the men in the heart.
No!
Everything happened at warp speed. More workers poured through the door, launching themselves at the mountain of muscle, swatting his pistol, slamming his hands onto the floor.
He hollered like a beast attacked by insects, but in sheer numbers, he was overwhelmed.
Another man entered, this one wearing the patch of manager on his dirty t-shirt. He was older, more Cut’s age, and full of authority as he stood over Marquise. Without flinching, he hacked at his neck with a machete.
