Nico’s next words are careful, like he’s trying to navigate around the giant fucking elephant in the room. “Where’d you learn to shoot?”
“My dad taught me,” I say. “He’d take me to shoot clay pigeons in the woods behind his buddy’s house when I was little.”
Nico hums. “Only use it if there’s no other option. And I’d appreciate it if you refrained from shooting me.”
I drop a round into each of the barrels, slinging the shotgun over my shoulder so the barrels point at the sky. “Don’t try to strangle me, or I might.”
He flinches. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he nods once, then turns away from me.
I don’t know why I thought saying that would make things less awkward. The joke clearly landed wrong, but if he feels nothing as he claims, it wouldn’t have hurt him. That flinch says otherwise.
“Everyone good?” Nico addresses the others, tone commanding again. Nods all around. He steps in front of me. “Let’s move.”
I have to grip the shotgun strap with both hands and jog to catch up with him. He’s already at the chain-link fence, kneeling next to a gap where the metal’s been peeled back. He holds it up for me, and I drop to my hands and knees to crawl through. I turn to help him, but he uses the horizontal bar partway down the fence to pull himself through the gap feet-first. Even in a crisis, Nico is smooth.
As I walk next to him, my eyes keep going to his bruise.
Griffin’s not a small guy, but Nico’s got at least three inches and forty pounds on him. If Nico had wanted to fight back, he could’ve, but he didn’t. That’s not the behavior of someone who has no control over his emotions, like he told me.
I gulp as I take in the building. It’s massive, all corrugated metal and broken windows. Graffiti covers the lower walls in layers of spray paint, and part of the roof has caved in on the far side.
Nico approaches the main entrance, testing the mottled handle. He lifts his eyebrows. “Ready?”
Nope, not at all. “Yes.”
The door swings open at his touch.
Nico raises his shotgun, taking slow, precise steps through the old factory floor. Concrete pillars stretch into darkness. Conveyor belts snake like intestines over our heads. Every breath coats my throat with grit that makes me need to cough, but I swallow it down. The last thing we need is me announcing our location.
There are red emergency bulbs mounted at regular intervals on the low ceiling beams, casting just enough light that we don’t need our flashlights. It’s only enough to illuminate the factory floor.
I’m surprised the electricity is working, but I’ll take it. Using our flashlights could give us away if Morrow is in here.
Grit crunches under my boots. A gust of wind blows against the side of the building, whistling through the space, probably getting in through a broken window.
I’m trying to quiet my senses and listen like Nico told me, but I can’t focus on anything except how fast my heart is pounding.
Nico stops at the base of a utility stairwell with grated metal steps and a missing railing. The bulbs are mounted on the wall, too dim to light the stairwell fully.
“Can you feel anything?” he whispers.
“No.”
“Try closing your eyes.”
“What if something?—”
“I’ll watch your back,” he says. “I promise. I got you.”
I know he does, despite how confused I am about him. So, I close my eyes.
I use the rhythmic push and pull of my lungs to guide me as I try to filter out the baseline sounds. The groan of metal settling.The whisper of wind through broken windows. Nico’s breathing, steady and controlled beside me.
But underneath all that… something else.
“I think I hear music,” I whisper.
“Music?” He sounds skeptical but not dismissive.
