Destination: RAM at REDACTED, LAMB at Corvium, NRT.
-Five days. No more negotiation.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
Somehow the farmhouse has begun to feel like a home.
Even with the collapsed roof, the tents wicked with humidity, and the silence of the woods. It’s the longest I’ve been anywhere since Irabelle, but that was always base. And while the soldiers there are the closest thing I have to family, I never could see the cold concrete and mazelike passages as anything more than a way station. A place to train and wait for the next assignment.
Not so with the ruin on the doorstep of the killing grounds, in the shadow of a grave city.
“That’s it,” I tell Cara, and lean back against the closet wall.
She nods and folds away the broadcaster. “Nice to see you all chatting again.”
Before I can laugh, Tristan’s neat knock jars the shuttered excuse for a door. “Got company.”
Barrow.
“Duty calls,” I grumble as I scoot past Cara, bumping her in the closed space. Wrenching open the door, I’m surprised to find Tristan standing so close, his usual nervous energy on overdrive.
“Spotters got him this time, finally,” he says. On another day, he might be proud, but something about this sets him off. I know why. We never see Barrow coming. So why today? “Signaled it’s important—”
Behind him, the farmhouse door bangs open, revealing a red-faced Barrow flanked by Cris and Little Coop.
One look at his terrified face is enough.
“Scatter,” I snap.
They know what it means. They know where to go.
A hurricane moves through the farmhouse, taking home with it. The guns, the provisions, our gear disappears in a practiced heartbeat, shoved into bags and packs. Cris and Little Coop are already gone, into the trees, to get as high as they can. Their mirrors and birdcalls will carry the message to the others in the woods. Tristan supervises the rest, all while loading his long rifle.
“There isn’t time, they’re coming now!” Barrow hisses, suddenly at my side. He takes my elbow and not gently. “You have to go!”
Two snaps of my fingers. The team obeys, dropping whatever isn’t packed away. I guess we’ll have to steal some more tents down the line, but it’s the least of my worries. Another snap, and they fly like bullets from a gun. Cara, Tye, Rasha, and the rest going through the door and the collapsed wall, in all directions with all speed. The woods swallow them whole.
Tristan waits for me because it’s his job. Barrow waits because—because I don’t know.
“Farley,” he hisses. Another tug at my arm.
I cast one last glance, making sure we have everything, before making my own escape into the tree line. The men follow, keeping pace with my sprint through tangled roots and brush. My heart pounds in my ears, beating a harried drum. We’ve had worse. We’ve had worse.
Then I hear the dogs.
Animos-controlled hounds. They’ll smell us, they’ll follow, and the swifts will run us down. If we’re lucky they’ll think we’re deserters and kill us in the forest. If not—I don’t want to think about what horrors the black city of Corvium holds.
“Get to water,” I force out. “They’ll lose the scent!”
But the river is a half mile on.
I only hope they take the time to search the farmhouse, giving us the window we need to escape. At least the others are farther on, spread wide. No pack can follow us all. But me, us, the freshest, closest scent? Easy prey.
Despite the protest in my muscles, I push harder and run faster than I ever have before. But after only a minute, only a minute, I start to tire. If only I could run as fast as my thundering heart.
Tristan slows with me, though he doesn’t need to. “There’s a creek,” he hisses, pointing south. “Shoots off the river, closer. You head for it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can make it to the river. You can’t. And they can’t follow us both.”
My eyes widen. I almost trip in my confusion, but Barrow catches me before I can, sternly helping me over a gnarled root. “Tristan—”
My lieutenant only smiles and pats the gun slung across his back. Then he points. “That way, Boss.”
Before I can stop him, before I can order him not to, he leaps through the trees, using his long legs and the lower branches to vault over worsening ground. I can’t shout after him. Somehow I don’t even get a good look at his face. Only a mop of red hair, gleaming through