Page 51

Cinder Gap isn’t on any map worth reading—just a whisper of a place choked by dust and decay, where even the wind forgets to blow and silence presses against your skin like a warning. A dried-out shell of a town clinging to the base of a mountain, half-swallowed by desert and memory. We roll in ahead of the team, the Harley’s tires kicking up a storm of red grit as we skid toa stop in front of the desiccated main street. The air tastes like copper and dried blood.

There are no birds. No bugs. Just silence.

"Follow my lead," I say to Sutton as I dismount. She nods, eyes sharp, movements fluid.

Rifle in hand, I step into the street. My boots slam into the brittle earth, the sound sharp and unrelenting. I move first. She’s on my six, close enough I feel her presence like a second heartbeat. We slip between skeletal buildings, shadows carved in the dust. The Reaper’s stink is here—cold, clinical violence that sours the wind like rot.

Then we hear it.

Gunfire. From the church at the far end of town.

I break into a run, boots slamming the cracked earth, adrenaline roaring through my veins. Sutton is right behind me, her breath sharp in the silence, her presence a steady drumbeat against the chaos. Each step pounds toward the echo of gunfire, toward blood and vengeance. We move like predators through a dying town, two streaks of motion cutting through the dust-choked air, the church looming ahead like a final battleground.

The scene explodes the second we breach the church doors. Sutton peels off from my side, diving toward the front where Frank lies crumpled, bleeding. I stay tight on her, covering her six as she throws herself to the floor beside him. Behind us, Dalton angles in from the opposite side aisle, firing at a man ducking behind the altar.

The Reaper.

I zero in on him, but he’s already moving—fast and lethal, a shadow slipping through the chaos. His arm snaps up, gunraised. His eyes lock on mine for a heartbeat—and then pivot. He pivots. Aims. Straight at Sutton, who's still kneeling beside her father, exposed and vulnerable.

I fire. The crack of the shot splits the air as the recoil slams into my shoulder. The bullet tears into his upper arm, spinning him half around with the force, a spray of blood arcing in the dim light. He staggers, but doesn’t fall—still upright, still armed, still a threat.

"Sutton, move!"

She doesn’t move—because Frank’s groaning beneath her, blood soaking through his shirt as he struggles to lift his head. His breath rasps, wet and ragged, and he tries to push himself up with shaking arms, fingers clawing for purchase against the cracked floorboards.

"I’m okay, kid," he gasps.

A lie. I feel it before I see it—an instinctive shudder deep in my gut, as if the earth itself tilts. The air grows thick, oppressive. Every sound blurs into silence, the world funneled to a pinpoint of blinding light and dread that claws at my chest.

The red dot appears on Sutton’s chest, then slides sideways—slow, deliberate—until it settles over Frank.

"No!"

The shot cracks. Blood sprays.

Frank jerks violently, a strangled noise ripping from his throat as his body collapses into hers. Sutton screams—a sound of pure anguish—and wraps her arms around him, cradling his weight like her own body could become a shield. His blood is hot and sticky, soaking into her clothes, pooling between them. Each breath he takes sounds more like a gurgle, a gruesome wet rattle that echoes too loudly in the vast silence. He's slipping through her fingers—bleeding out too fast, too much, too soon.

I drop beside them, knees cracking against the blood-slick boards, my hands instantly pressing down on the gaping woundin Frank’s abdomen. The heat of his blood seeps between my fingers, sticky and fast-flowing. Sutton’s sobbing, frantic, her hands trembling as she yanks at her jacket, trying to tear it open to use as a bandage. Her breath comes in gasps, choked and desperate, eyes wide with shock. Frank’s hand lashes out with sudden strength, clamping around her wrist. His grip is weak but determined, a final tether to keep her grounded.

"I’m sorry," he whispers. "I couldn’t keep her safe."

"No," Sutton gasps. "You’re not going anywhere."

His eyes are going glassy. "You’re so much stronger than I ever was." He looks up at me. "You take care of her."

"Don’t. Please. Don’t leave me."

His hand goes slack.

Sutton's scream tears loose like a banshee's wail—unearthly, piercing, savage. It rips through the church with a violence that seems to bend the air itself, reverberating off the old stone and timber like the wrath of something ancient and primal. Her grief is a living force, rolling off her in jagged waves that crash into the silence and shatter it completely. The air around us turns heavy, suffocating, as if even the walls are recoiling in shock and sorrow.

"Sutton—" I reach for her.

But she’s not listening. She pushes me away. Crawls over his chest. Her mouth hovers over his neck. Her hands tremble as they hover near his throat, hesitation crackling through her like electricity before instinct takes over.

I realize what she’s about to do one second too late. "Sutton, no!"

Her teeth sink in, sharp and decisive, puncturing the fragile skin at the base of Frank’s throat—just to the right of the hollow. A shudder rolls through the church like it’s been struck from the inside. Power arcs from her body like a live wire snappingloose. Light flashes—gold and silver streaks igniting along the floorboards. The air grows thick, pulsing, trembling.