And if something happens to them, if I don’t make it in time,
I will never forgive myself.
A tear cuts down my cheek.
I don’t wipe it.
I just run.
There’s a sound to the left.
I drop to the ground without thinking, my chest hitting the dirt as I slide behind a fallen tree, leaves sticking to my skin. My breath stills.
Then I see him, one of Roman’s men, all alone.
He’s not alert. Just walking, casually, like this stretch of woods is his fucking backyard. He steps behind a tree and unzips.
He’s taking a fucking piss.
My heart slams against my ribs. I glance at my gun, but if I fire, everyone within a mile will hear it. It’ll blow my cover. Blow everything.
I slip the knife from my boot and tighten my grip. My hand’s shaking, but I steady it. I remember Ryker. The way he moves low to the ground. Fluid. Fast. Like a fucking shadow.
Let’s see if I paid attention.
I lower myself flat, crawling on elbows and knees. Inch by inch. The dirt grinds into my skin, sticking to the sweat on my neck. My breath stays shallow.
He’s still facing the other way, still pissing, still vulnerable.
I get close, close enough to smell him, and I move, spring up, and wrap one arm around his throat, slamming the blade into his side. He gurgles. Tries to fight, but I twist the knife up and pull.
His body jerks once.
Then drops.
I cover his mouth with my hand, holding him to the ground until he stops moving.
My chest heaves. I stumble back. Wipe the blood off on the grass. My hand’s shaking again.
Holy fuck. I just
A twig snaps behind me.
I spin.
Another man.
He’s wide-eyed, just as shocked to see me as I am to see him.
He fumbles to get his gun, and I charge—no time to think, just move.
I dive forward, slamming into him with everything I have. We crash to the ground. His weapon skids across the dirt, and I land on top of him, knee to his chest.
He grabs my wrists, trying to stop the blade, but I’ve already killed the other one. I’m not hesitating, so I ram the knife down into his throat.
Once. Twice.
Hot blood sprays across my face.
