“The faucet,” Boone says, rising from his seat. “I can’t believe theyfinallysent somebody over for that.”
I’m happy to let him believe that.
“See?” I say, speaking with a mouthful of holy fucking delicious. “Things are looking up.”
Boone snorts and wipes his hands on his jeans as he makes his way over to the door.
He barely turns the knob before the door explodes inward, four men in dark-gray gear piling into the apartment, weapons raised.
Shit.Shit.
What do I?—
My father’s voice comes to me, something from one of our weapons training sessions. “First things first, settle on the logistics. Number of bad guys, number of weapons at our disposal, location of exits.”
I take a deep breath.
These bad guys haveterriblelogistics.
They might’ve been more successful if there were only two people with handguns, but the four operatives with their massive rifles cannot maneuver in the space, and Boone immediately takes advantage. He disarms the lead guy, using theconfiscated gun to shoot the second one through the door before hitting the first guy with the butt of his own rifle.
Boone’s tiny apartment—plus his quick thinking—just saved our lives.
While he’s busy with those two, I latch onto the guy closest to me and have him on the ground in seconds. I knock him out with a sharp elbow to his temple. Before the fourth guy can even pivot, I hook him behind his knee and pull him down. Boone steps in, kicking the man in the face with such violence that he immediately goes still beneath me.
Boone sweeps the room with his commandeered rifle.
The lead guy, woozy and bleeding profusely from his mouth, reaches for something in a side pocket. Boone pulls the trigger. No hesitation, just a spray of blood, and the man slumps dead.
Boone fires off two more head shots, ensuring no one is getting up. Blood seeps from a scrape on his cheekbone.
“Yourface.” I stand, reaching for him.
“I’m fine,” he says, his voice weird. “More incoming.”
That’s the only warning I get before the door slams open again.
Two more men fill the doorway, but before either of us can react, one guy’s head disappears in a puff of…ash? I belatedly register a low, pulsing sound. The other guy spins, and before he can even raise his weapon—poof—collapses into a second, larger pile of ash.
“Back,” Boone yells, holding his rifle in the ready position. He gingerly steps forward, checking over the railing.
“Holy shit.” He stumbles back into the apartment, as if propelled by his own shock.
“Oh my God, how many are there?” I ask, realizing hownotprepared I am for this kind of combat.
“We got the ones down here,” a familiar voice says. I blink, confused. Boone gestures for me to look, so I walk to the railing.
Uncle Hopper and Silas are in the parking lot, surrounded by several distinct piles of ash.
“Sorry we let those two get past us,” Sy says, pointing his rifle at the tree line.
The rifle emits a low pulse—sound and light together—like a bass note you can see.
Another pile of ash.
I…what?
I look over at Boone.
