They wouldn’t find me.
I circled wide, using the terrain Anhara had mapped for me. Every boulder she’d marked. Every fold in the land where shadow pooled deepest. She knew this moon like she knew her own body, and she’d given that knowledge to me.
The first scout was careless. Looking at the station when he should have been looking behind him.
I came up from the rocks like I was part of them. The blade she’d sharpened slid between his ribs, angled up, finding the heart. He made a sound like a sigh. I lowered him into a crevice and kept moving.
Her hands had held this blade. Her hands had worked the whetstone, patient and precise.
I wiped the steel on his jacket and moved to the next position.
The middle kills blurred together.
I don’t remember them individually. Don’t need to. They were obstacles, and I removed them. Two at a time when I could manage it. One at a time when I couldn’t. The ridge became a hunting ground, and I was the only predator that mattered.
Somewhere in the middle of it, I realized I was counting down. Not kills. Hours. Minutes until I could turn the comm back on and hear her voice.
Focus, I told myself.She’s fine. The sequence is running. She doesn’t need you hovering.
But I wanted to hover. That was the problem.
I wanted to be in two places at once. On the ridge, doing what needed to be done. And in the farmhouse basement, watching her work, listening to her mutter at the controls, being close enough to touch.
I’d spent my entire life not wanting that.
Five days with her, and I’d forgotten how to be alone.
The last two were smart.
They’d regrouped near a rocky outcropping after their companions went silent. Backs together. Weapons up. They’d finally realized they were being hunted.
I circled them for six minutes. Watching. Waiting.
My side was bleeding again. I’d felt the stitches give somewhere around kill number eight, a sharp pull and then the warm spread of blood under my jacket. I was leaving a trail now, dark spots on dark rock.
Later, I told myself.Deal with it later.
The taller one shifted his weight. His heel scraped against stone.
I was through the gap before the echo faded.
His partner died first, blade across the throat. The tall one spun, raised his weapon, and I put the knife through his eye before he could fire.
Twelve.
Quiet. Total, ringing quiet.
I stood there, swaying slightly, and took stock.
The wound was worse than I’d thought. The warmth had become a trickle, running down my hip, soaking into mywaistband. My hands were steady, but I could feel the tremor waiting beneath the surface. Waiting for me to stop moving.
The station. I needed to get back to the station. The sequence was still running, and I’d been dark for nearly two hours.
I reached for my earpiece with blood-slick fingers.
And that’s when I heard the gunfire.
Not from the ridge.
