Thump-thump-thump.
The heavy rounds are chewing through the log I’m huddled behind, spitting wood pulp into my hair. I can hear the shooters now—the crunch of heavy boots, the clipped, professional shouts of men who aren’t afraid of the dark.
“Wendy! Stay flat!” Peter’s voice is a roar against the chaos. He’s pressed against the other side of the log, his rifle spitting fire back into the tree line.
I can’t move. My fingers are locked around the grip of my handgun, my knuckles white and slick with mud. The withdrawal tremors are back, shaking my frame so hard I’m afraid I’ll trigger a round into my own stomach.
“They’ve got us pinned!” Hook yells from somewhere to my right. I see a muzzle flash, then the silhouette of him rolling behind a mossy outcrop. “If we stay here, they’ll just walk the fire in until we’re paste!”
Peter looks at me. His face is a mask of dirt and desperation, but his eyes—those dark, obsessive eyes—are fixed on mine. He reaches across the gap, his hand slamming onto my shoulder, grounding me.
“Wendy, listen to me!” he shouts over the thud of a nearby impact. “Me and Hook are going to flank. We’re going to go wide, left and right. We’re going to draw their eyes.”
“No,” I sob, the terror finally breaking through the shell. “Don’t leave me. Peter, don’t leave me in the dark again.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he growls, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and smelling of copper. “I’mclearing the path. You stay behind this log. You count to sixty. If anyone comes over that ridge who isn’t me or Hook, you empty that clip. You hear me? You empty it until it clicks, and then you run for the water. Do not wait for me.”
“Peter—”
“I love you,” he snaps, and it’s not a soft confession. It’s a battle cry. He kisses me—hard, tasting of dirt and salt—and then he’s gone.
He and Hook vanish into the undergrowth like ghosts made of smoke.
I’m alone.
The silence of the next sixty seconds is louder than the gunfire. I’m huddled in the mud, the cold seeping into my core, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every snap of a twig sounds like a death sentence. Every shadow looks like Viktor coming back from the dead.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
I’m counting, my lips moving silently. My finger is on the trigger. I’m shaking so hard the barrel of the gun is dancing, but I don’t let go. I won’t be the girl in the booth. I won’t be the victim.
Suddenly, the gunfire from the ridge changes. It’s no longer a steady rain; it’s a frantic, disorganised scramble. I hear a scream—short, wet, and cut off. Then another. Peter and Hook have found them. The butchers are at work.
A shadow looms over the log.
I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I roll onto my back, the mud sucking at my clothes, and I point the gun at the silhouette standing above me. It’s a man in tacticalgear, his face obscured by a mask, his rifle swinging toward my chest.
“Die,” I hiss.
I pull the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times.
The recoil shocks my system, but I don’t stop. I watch as the man is thrown backward, the bullets punching into his chest. He hits the ground with a heavy thud, his rifle clattering away. He’s wheezing, a wet, rattling sound that I know all too well.
I stand up. My legs are lead, my head is spinning, but I walk toward him. I look down at the man who came to put me back in a box, and I don’t feel pity. I don’t feel horror.
I feel nothing but the cold, clean weight of my own survival.
“Wendy!”
Peter breaks through the brush, his chest heaving, his knife dripping red. He sees the body at my feet. He sees the gun in my hand. He stops, his eyes sweeping over me, searching for wounds.
“I’m okay,” I say, my voice sounding like it’s coming from a long way off. “I’m whole, Peter.”
He reaches me in two strides, pulling me into him, his heart thundering against my ear.
“The creek is a hundred yards away,” he gasps. “Hook’s calling the boat. We’re going, darling. We’re going right now.”
The smell of the creek hits me before I see it—thick, stagnant silt and the sharp, metallic tang of cold water.
