“How many?” he said.
“Fuck you,” the lumbering man said.
Seth’s finger moved to the trigger, but Adria stopped him.
“Save your bullets,” she said as she grabbed the man’s hair and ran the knife across his throat.
Blood oozed out, and a gurgling sound escaped the man’s lips. Adria stared down at him, watching the light leave his eyes.
CHAPTER 22
POLANCO
Kaydon slammed the accelerator, the engine screaming as Bryson stabbed out the number. The phone’s ringing stretched into eternity.
“They are not answering,” he said.
“Keep trying,” Kaydon said.
His voice was glacier-cold, the calm before a massacre.
The two of them had woken up to a text from Seth saying there was trouble.
It had been twenty minutes of hell since then, imagining what the word “trouble” meant in their world.
Bryson punched in Eric’s number.
Silence. Ringing. Silence.
“FUCK,” Bryson yelled into the car.
Splitting up had been suicide. The Triune could go to hell. They should have stayed together, fought together, died together if necessary.
His hands convulsed, phone nearly slipping.
“How far, Kay?” he demanded, throat raw.
“Ten minutes if I don’t kill us first,” Kaydon said, taking a curve so hard the tires howled in protest.
Bryson tried Adria again, heart hammering against his ribs.
One ring. Two.
“Hello.” Her soft voice took his breath away.
“Dri! Jesus Christ—are you hurt? What happened?” The phone creaked under his death grip.
“We had some company, but we are all okay. Little banged up, but fine.”
Fine.
What the fuck did fine mean? Bryson needed to see them. To look them over inch by inch before he could relax.
“Eric wants to talk to you,” Adria said.
“Eight of them,” Eric’s gruff voice came through the line.
“They’ll know we were here, but with those numbers, I don’t think they’ll have another team on the ground for a few hours at least, if not a day. This is our chance to get to Vega’s and lay low.”
