You have to be able to end it.
One breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
I shift the shotgun.
The movement is tiny. But the shadow freezes.
He hears me.
He turns. Night-vision goggles glow with a faint, terrible green light. His pistol—suppressed, barrel extended—comes up in one practiced arc.
I don't think. I don't hesitate. I don't flinch.
Center mass. Aggressive stance. Lean in.
I squeeze the trigger.
BOOM.
The muzzle flash turns the hallway white, burning the image into my retinas—the silhouette lifting off its feet, thrown backward through the window he just entered, glass shattering outward in a cascading waterfall of noise.
I pump the action.
CLACK-CLACK.
Gunpowder, sharp and familiar, fills the air.
"Wren?" Kade's voice is edged with something close to panic.
"Target down." My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Hard. Ferocious. Like something that has always lived in me and is only now finding its name.
"Reload. Stay on it."
I fumble a shell from the side saddle and shove it into the magazine tube. Hands trembling, but working. Working.
There is no room to process what I just did. No room for horror, no room for triumph. Because the moment my shot rings out, the silence outside fractures.
A shout. A command in a language I don't know.
And then the front of the cabin explodes.
ELEVEN
Kade
The world turns white,then gray.
The breaching charge hits like a physical blow, compressing my lungs and rattling my teeth. Dust billows in a choking cloud, instantly filling the main room, turning the air to grit.
I don't blink. Don't flinch. Let the adrenaline sharpen the chaos into data.
Three beams of coherent green light slice through the haze. Weapon-mounted lasers. Three men moving with predatory fluidity, their sweep synchronized and tight.
One. Two. Three.
They don't see me. I'm tucked into shadow behind the overturned oak table, a void in the corner of the room.
They see the heat.
