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“They’re regrouping again!” Ronan calls. “Heavier this time!”
“Heavier how?” Cal asks.
A pause.
Then—
“Six. Maybe more.”
Perfect.
“They’re getting desperate,” Mila says.
“Good,” I reply. “So are we.”
I glance around the shelter.
Small space.
Limited exits.
No room to fall back.
Which means—
We don’t.
“We hold here,” I say.
“That’s not exactly ideal,” Lance mutters.
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
I check my mag.
Then look at Mila.
But it’s the only option.
“And we make them regret coming through that door.”
A slow, dangerous smile touches her lips.
“Now that,” she says, lifting her weapon, “I can get behind.”
Outside—
Boots hit gravel.
Voices—low, controlled.
Stacking up.
Again.
But this time—
We’re ready.
