binoculars and twisted to face him. “Walk away?”
“Do you have a sudden craving for hot lead in your ass? You don’t bring knives to a gunfight.”
It was true, Titus had no desire to engage, particularly with the likes of marauders, who were known to be lawless and brutal. “They’re our source of trade. There’s no other hive for miles.”
“Then, we’ll pick up and move to where there’s another hive. Simple.” He’d already begun walking in the other direction, as if to prove his point.
“You’ve fucked the very women they intend to violate.” Titus’s words brought Atticus to a halt.
“That is a shame. But it’s the nature of this world. To take. Why interfere?”
“Because you dragged my ass here, and I’m not going to stand by and let some goat-fucking pricks destroy our means of trade. Go back, if you want.” Stuffing the binoculars away, Titus strode through the dark, his muscles tight, fists flexing at his sides. Strange, the way the body rose to the occasion, even if fighting was the last thing he yearned for right then.
Hives tended to keep to themselves, as they didn’t trust outsiders, for the very reason that drew Titus closer when he’d have preferred to turn away, as well. They traded with other hives for supplies, but it just so happened, Atticus saved one of the daughters from a band of Ragers who would’ve dragged her to a nest, while she was out picking juniper berries. His valor won him the trust of the girl’s father, and their hive, in turn, became a means of keeping the Alphas well-stocked through the winter.
Sticking to the shadows, Titus approached one of the tents, opposite where the bikes sat unoccupied. The screams reminded him of those he’d often heard through the vents in Calico. Cries of fear and torment. He peeked around the canvas and found one marauder slipping a rope over the neck of a man who lay on the ground, the other end affixed to the back of his bike. At the man’s feet, a second rope had been secured around his ankles, the end of that one attached to a different bike. Both riders revved the engine, drowning the screams of an older woman who reached out for what Titus presumed to be her husband. Not a second later, the man’s head flew from the rest of his body, and the woman collapsed to the ground.
“Fucking savages.” The sound of Atticus from behind didn’t startle Titus. He’d expected him to follow. As much as he could be a bastard, the truth was, Atticus had a possessive streak. No doubt, the comment about these men violating what he considered to be his gnawed at him.
“I’ll take the north end of the camp,” Titus said. “You take the south. We’ll meet in the middle.”
“I guarantee, by the end of this, I’ll have killed more than you, Brother.” Atticus pulled a grisly-looking blade from a side holster, another from his boot, and tucked a third up into a holster at his wrist. In the absence of guns, he’d make a formidable opponent to these men, wiping them out in seconds. Unfortunately, he’d need Titus to level the odds where automatic weapons were concerned. While they kept a few guns hidden back at the camp, they found them to be cumbersome during evening treks. Marauders and Legion were the only ones who typically carried an arsenal. Most wanderers and rogues could be subdued with a blade.
It’d been months since either of them’d had to kill anything that wasn’t food.
With the same sly stealth that he employed to hunt down rabbits and quick prey, Titus stalked toward a man who stood facing away on the perimeter of the melee. The gun strapped across him did him no good, as Titus slid a hand across his victim’s mouth, and with three perfectly executed stabs, the man gave out a mumbled grunt that vibrated against his palm, seconds before he went limp in his arms. Titus slipped the gun from over the dead man’s head and strapped it to himself before creeping up to his next target.
In the same manner as before, he carried out a quiet execution, dragging each man to the shadows of the surrounding tents to avoid being seen. Opposite, Atticus would be making his way toward the center in the same manner, laying waste to every marauder in his path, without so much as a peep. Since they were boys, they’d been trained to raid hives on