Viper’s there when we pull up, leaning casually against his truck like he’s waiting for a takeout order instead of two armed men. He flicks his cigarette into the churned gravel, slow and deliberate, like a matador taunting the bull. Smoke curls from his nostrils, thick and lazy.
“Morning,” he calls.
Rabid slides from behind the wheel first. The morning light sharpens every edge of him—jaw flexing, eyes black and flat as gunmetal. He doesn’t look at me, just scans the treeline, sizing up Viper like he’s a wild dog that might bite if you turn your back.
“You’re Viper,” Rabid says, not quite a question.
Viper grins, teeth white against the stubble on his face. “In the flesh.” His gaze flicks to me, then back to Rabid measuring us both. “You must be Rabid."
Rabid's lips don’t move for a beat. “I am.” He lets the words hang, heavy, inviting a challenge.
I cut in before the tension can thicken. “Viper, what have you got for us?”
Viper gestures toward the treeline. “Trail of footprints leading to an old cabin a quarter-mile in. Found them this morning. Fresh ones. I’d say Pike was here just hours ago.” Something in his tone scratches at me — too pleased. Too sure. But then he smirks and claps my shoulder, and suddenly he’s just Viper again: confident, charming, in control. “You ready to hunt, brother?”
We cross into the trees together, boots punching through loam and last year’s needles, the ground still soaked from overnight rain. For a while, all I hear is the wet slap of footsteps and our breathing. Rabid moves with eerie quiet, his gun drawn but held low, eyes darting to every shadow. Viper stays just a half-step ahead, almost bouncing with energy, but he never loses the trail. There’s a jitteriness to him, in the way his fingers flex around the grip of his weapon, the casual, bouncy flick of his wrist when he moves a branch aside, like he’s done this a thousand times, as if this is nothing more than sport.
After a while, we reach the cabin.
If you can even call it that.
It’s more a suggestion of a building than anything habitable: four rotten walls, roof caved in, one window gaping like a missing eye. Moss shrouds the siding, and the front door hangs crooked on a single hinge, creaking when the wind nudges it. Rabid lets out a whistle, low and grim.
“Place looks friendly,” he mutters.
We fan out instinctively, weapons up. Viper pauses, tilting his head, listening for the thing that doesn’t belong. “He’s still close,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I can feel it.” He gestures at the door. “Breaker, take point. I’ll cover left. Rabid, swing wide.”
We move as a unit. I nudge the door open with my boot. It groans, then collapses inward, sending up a cloud of dust that stings my eyes. I step inside, gun ready. The smell hits me like a punch to the chest—mildew, old blood, and something foul, chemical, like formaldehyde cut with piss. My stomach flips. I blink hard, trying to see past the haze.
Viper steps forward as if he’s walking into an old friend’s house. “Told you he’s dangerous. The kind who enjoys the smell.”
There’s not much inside. A bare cot with a stained wool blanket. A rusty lantern on a crate. Moldy cans of soup stacked in the corner, labels peeled off. Trash everywhere—bottles, wrappers, torn pages from a magazine. And on the dirt floor, a splash of something dark, still tacky, leading to a clump of rags by the back wall.
I move closer, heart pounding. The “rags” are clothes — women’s, torn and bloody. A pair of latex gloves, inside-out and smeared with blackish red. Next to them, a knife. Not a kitchen knife, but a hunting blade, six inches of steel, the handle wrapped in blue tape. The blade is wet, glistening in the half-light. Next to it, something else. Square, dirty, a photograph.
I kneel and pick it up.
The edges are torn. The image smeared. But there’s enough left to see the curve of a cheek. A familiar jawline. Curly hair, and an unmistakable smile.
My heart stops.
Riley.
A small sound escapes me — half growl, half strangled breath.
Rabid crouches beside me, frowning. “Can’t say for sure that’s her.”
“She’s the only one he’s been stalking,” I snap. “Who else would it be? This son of a bitch has my woman in his sights.”
I fight to keep steady, but my voice betrays me — hoarse, raw, the old fear clawing up my throat. Failure. Loss. Blood and bodies. The memory of the IED blast detonates behind my eyes, filling my mind with the fire, the screams, the feeling of debris raining on me like the sky were falling.
I couldn’t save them. Now, I could lose my Sparrow, too.
I’m breathing too fast. Rabid puts a hand on my shoulder, steadying me.
“Breaker,” he says quietly. “We need to think. Monsters like this…”
“He’s hunting her,” I bite out. “Right now. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. She’s on his radar. Look at it.”
