“You three get in the back,” Maria snaps. “And leave me to concentrate.”
We scramble into the torn canvas cave. Maria almost stalls pulling away, then saves it with a grinding lurch.
The dirt road punishes every bolt in this dying machine. But we’re moving. Away from Victora. Away from death.
Relief floods through me—giddy, delirious. I am alive. I am out of Victora. I keep touching Esme and Marco to check they’re real. That they’re really with me. That we’re really doing this.
“Marco.” I fist my hand in his vest, dragging him close.
The kiss is fierce, claiming. Hard enough to bruise. It tastes of blood, and dust and impossible choices. It tastes like us. When I pull back, I keep him close enough to feel his breath.
“You brave, beautiful thing. I love you. I’d burn the whole world down for you too.”
Then I hear the engine noise behind us.
I twist around in the cramped space, peering through the torn canvas.
A quad bike bounces across the wasteland, kicking up dust clouds. Two figures hunched low over the handlebars—one driving, one riding pillion with a rifle gripped in his hands.
They’re gaining fast.
“Drive faster!” Marco shouts at Maria.
The van lurches forward, Maria’s foot slamming the accelerator. The engine screams in protest, but we barely pick up speed. This piece of shit was never built for racing.
Marco presses his lips together, chambering a round. He positions himself at the torn canvas opening. “Only six rounds. I’d better make them count.”
The quad bike bounces closer, our assailant’s faces coming into focus. The driver has a scar running down his left cheek, puckered white tissue. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seenhimbefore.
“That scar! It’s him! He’s the one who took Atrea!” I choke out.
Marco nods. “Kane Bishop. Emperor’s high commander.”
“Marco, that’s the man who did it. He gave the order.”
When Marco’s eyes turn black, I know he understands. Bishop spilled the blood of his entire family with one careless wave of his hand.
The passenger behind Bishop raises his weapon—some kind of assault rifle that makes our single-shot look like a toy.
Muzzle flashes bloom in the distance. Bullets whine past the van, one punching through the canvas inches from Esme’s head.
Maria swerves wildly, throwing us against the sides of the cargo area. Esme crashes into me, her elbow driving into my ribs.
Marco braces himself, trying to line up a shot as the van bucks and weaves. The sight jumps all over the place. He squeezes the trigger.
The shot goes wide, kicking up dirt twenty yards to their left.
“Fuck!” Marco works the bolt, chambering another round.
More gunfire. More holes in our canvas.
He raises the rifle again. Bishop’s scarred face twists with concentration as he steers the quad bike closer.
The rifle kicks against Marco’s shoulder. Another miss.
Four rounds left.
The quad bike weaves left, then right, closing the distance. Forty yards now. Thirty.
