"Once Saxon has regained consciousness, he'll handle things. Just keep your eye on him. And your surroundings. Danger has a way of cropping up around those boys."
"Got it."
"We'll meet soon, Terra."
"Bye. Thanks."
The call is disconnected, then, and I'm left in silence. Saxon is unconscious, and there's a dead man with his brains spilling out beside me. Around me, I hear groans, moans, curses. Pleas for help.
I pick up the gun and hold it, resting it on Saxon's hip, just in case one of the injured men decides to get frisky.
A little over twenty minutes later, I hear the thumping sound of a helicopter. It grows steadily closer, and closer, and closer, until I see it hovering over the tops of the trees, over in the field. The sound steadies and is muffled slightly as it lowers to the ground, the trees baffling the noise.
Over the thump of the idling rotors, I hear a slow series of gunshots—CRACK…CRACK…CRACK.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was assuming it was help—what if it's not? What if Jarrod called for backup?
But…who would they be shooting?
CRACK.
CRACK.
CRACK.
The shots are close, now. They echo, ripple back to me.
CRACK.
Just out of sight.
I stand up, straddling Saxon's prone body with my feet, assuming the shooter's stance, aiming in the direction of the shots.
A tall figure strides out of the trees toward me. Camilla. Green dress, so short it barely covers her ass. Plunging neckline, boobs out and proud. Hair in a fishtail braid down her back, leaving the scars on her face revealed. She's wearing heels. In the fucking forest.
She has a small pink handgun, small enough to fit in a purse, or even in a boot. As she passes a writhing, moaning Cabal soldier, she pauses, cracks off a single shot into his skull, and continues toward me. Somehow, no blood dares get on her, or her shoes.
Men swarm behind her in pairs—they toss body bags on the ground beside the corpses, toss them in, zip them up, and carry them out of the forest in the direction of the helicopter.
Two more men carrying an orange stretcher arrive a moment later, at a jog. They quickly examine Saxon.
"He's stable. Pulse is weak but steady." The medic, an older man with graying hair in a U around the back of his head, glances at me. "Excellently applied tourniquet, miss. He'll be fine."
I barely manage a nod in his direction. I'm barely keeping it together.
Camilla saunters to me. My gun wavers, shakes, pointed right at her. "Just me, darling. Don't shoot." Her smile is understanding. "It's all over, now. You did well." She gently removes the gun from my grip and hands it blindly to one side—a suited assistant takes it. "He is lucky to have you."
I swallow. Shake. "I think I might throw up."
She steps to the side. "Not on my Manolo Blahniks, please."
I do indeed hurl, and copiously. Camilla just watches. When I'm done, she glances at her assistant—a good-looking young man, not the same one as before. He hands her his pocket square, and she hands it to me.
"I threw up my first time, too." A shrug. "But then, my first kill was my own brother. I hadn't considered proper revenge yet, so I just shot him. It was only later I began the torture."
"Yeah, I think I'll skip the torture."
She smiles. "Pity. We could have fun together, you and me."
