Page 13

Jaykob

Diplomatic solutions don’t involve bullets.

Fuck. Fucking motherfucking fuck .

“Did you forget to bring bullets?” Kasey whispers dubiously. “Wasn’t that your whole job?”

I shoot her a glare as I pat around my toolbelt like I might have stashed a spare mag next to my wrench. Nothing. Of course there’s nothing. I only have my rifle.

We were out checking the hydroelectrics, trying to work out if we can upgrade the thing, when Jada bolted out of the McMansion, shouting about seeing men approaching on the cameras.

The forest blew up like the Fourth of July while everyone else was getting into position, but like the dumb asshole I am, I didn’t have my shit with me.

I’m naked as a fucking newborn.

“Well, which is it? King here or this Dom fellow?” Sawyer calls, the same smug Reaper prick I radio-called two weeks ago.

How the hell did they find us? Captain Dickwad is going to blow a gasket.

Hovering beside Kasey, Jada gives me a nervous look. She’s unarmed, too.

At least the shots have stopped.

Kasey throws a bee-sting punch into my shoulder. “Dude! Bringing bullets is like Soldier 101! We’re going to die. I’m using you as a human shield.”

I run a hand over my head, trying to think. “Un-bunch your panties. I’ll talk to them.” She winces, and I scowl. “I can talk!”

Kasey and Jada exchange a look, and Kasey adds delicately, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Remember last time?”

Last time.

Fucking fuck .

That radio call was a shit tornado.

I stand up. “They’re talking, not shooting. They want something.”

If they want something, maybe a deal is on the cards after all.

I just need Dom to stop acting like he knows everything for two seconds.

A lot of shit has changed these last two weeks, and he has no clue what’s going on.

I need to break him into the new order. But doing that mid-combat?

Getting the CO to stop acting like he’s the only one who’s ever had a single bright spark go off in his skull is never going to happen.

I’m going to have to wrestle control out of Dom’s cold, dead?—

“Jayk is in charge.” My head whips toward the captain’s voice as it blasts through the forest. “Dom has officially stepped down.”

I frown.

What kind of bullshit game is this?

I’m still staring when Kasey whacks my leg. “Is this you talking? Or did you forget how to do that, too?”

I flip her off and give Jada a hard look. “Get her back to Bristlebrook and lock her in a bathroom.”

Kasey’s eyes widen in outrage, but Jada is already dragging her backward. I whirl around and push out into the open. It’s bullshit doing this without a kit. I have the mag I already loaded, but that’s, what, thirty rounds, max?

Talking. Gotta talk. We need this. I can’t afford to fuck this up again.

I stop between a bunch of narrow trees that won’t stop a strong breeze, let alone a bullet.

At my two o’clock, a handful of arrows litter the trees. At least the civs are on the ball.

“Pack your heat away and show yourself, Sawyer.” I rub my dusty, sweaty tank, wishing I remembered to shave. Or shower.

I leave my rifle over my shoulder as four men appear out of the forest, materializing from behind trees and bushes and a mound of displaced soil.

And I stop worrying about looking like a meathead.

All four of these assholes look like they just stepped out of Bumpkin Magazine.

They’re loaded up in more denim than a normal human should own, battered boots and T-shirts, and caps with stupid, cheesy slogans like “Part-time farmer, full-time charmer” and “No farms, no food, no future” and “I’m real good at f_ _ _ ing” next to a stalk of corn that belongs in a porno.

Every one of them has a shotgun slung over their shoulders and pistols at their hips, and it only takes a look to see they didn’t forget their bullets.

But I relax anyway.

They might be standing like their dicks don’t fit between their legs, puffing their chests like it doesn’t just make them a bigger target, but their nerves are blood in the water. They’re so bunched together that one spray on full auto would take them out.

My thirty rounds might be enough after all.

A dark-haired man with a proud handlebar mustache breaks from the flock. He knocks back his cowboy hat, then tucks his thumbs in his belt.

I fight the urge to remove his smirk with my fist.

“You the King?” he drawls, holding out his hand to shake.

The old name throws me hard, and it takes me a second to recognize the voice from the radio call.

I scowl at him. “The fuck are you doing here, Sawyer? I don’t remember giving you a location.”

Sawyer doesn’t drop his hand, but his eyes harden under the brim of his hat. “You know, it’s awful rude to ignore someone tryin’ to introduce himself.”

The men behind him shift casually, easing their shotguns over their shoulders and stroking pistol grips, and the little nicks and dents in the metal tell me they’re not just for decoration.

I still think I can get my rifle around before they get off more than a shot or two, but I don’t reach for it.

It’s bullshit that they showed up here, but hope has me starting to sweat bullets.

The larder is coming up on empty, the hunting team hasn’t caught shit worth writing home about in a week, and supply runs have turned up shit-all, and even though I keep slipping Kasey a chunk of my rations, she’s so thin I could use her tibia as a toothpick.

The Reapers are sitting on a gold mine of agricultural land. It’s the difference between life and death for us, if they’ll play ball. I still have a scar from where they shot me the last time we tangled with them, though, so I’m not counting their chickens yet. These fuckers don’t like to share.

And ain’t that cute.

We have something in common.

I fight the urge to look for Eden and step into Sawyer’s space, slapping my hand into his. He narrows his eyes on me, and I bare my teeth in a smile, squeezing his hand.

I can be diplomatic. As long as the buddy-buddy cock crew doesn’t decide to actually watch my back for once and put one between the asshole’s eyes, we can work this shit out.

Sawyer doesn’t release my hand.

He squeezes harder.

I stop smiling. We’re about the same height, and his calluses and functional muscles say he hauls ass doing real work rather than pounding it out at the gym, but he has to be able to see I could crush him.

He grins lazily again, and I clench my fist around his until he grunts.

If he won’t cooperate, that’s fine.

I’ll make them play ball.

Sunlight is starting to die, but the air thickens around us, dense and wet and hot with challenge. A fat bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, pooling in one bushy brow. It springs up under my arms. Down my back.

His palm is compressed white around mine, and the vice grip bites brutally into my skin. Veins throb in my forearm as I hold him steady, and the fucker still doesn’t let go .

Try me , his face says.

Arrogant. Dick.

Like I haven’t handled every two-bit bully and smug, privileged asshole I ever came across. Like I can’t see when someone thinks they’re better than me.

If I back down now, we’re not getting shit from them. We need a deal, but if they think they own us, that they’re stronger than us, then we might as well bend over, ‘cause we’re getting fucked without lube.

Sawyer steps into me to get more leverage and I clench my teeth, pushing him back.

There’s a muttered “ cavemen ” behind me, and a sigh I’ve heard in too many sessions from another smug, privileged asshole.

Jasper could never get it. He’s always got everything he ever asked for. He doesn’t know how fast it can all slip away.

He doesn’t know how to fight with his teeth.

The trees rustle, and then Sawyer’s hand is dropping from mine to his holster, his eyes training on whoever’s stalking over to us. I smirk, linking my hands behind my head.

Pussy.

Dom falls in beside me in his full battle rattle, and I don’t bother acknowledging him. If he was going to piss on my parade, he’d have done it already.

“Unless you want to waste time looking for a hand job next, maybe you can answer the question: the fuck are you doing here, Sawyer?” I ask. Diplomatically.

Farmboy stares hard at me for a long moment, then sniffs and shrugs, lazily scanning the tree line. “You want to make a deal, don’t you?”

Before he can answer, somewhere to my ten o’clock, a woman makes a high, pained sound, then snaps, “Fuck, Doc. Gentle!”

I stiffen as Sawyer’s curious gaze lingers on that patch of green, and the urge to punch him returns. I don’t want him curious about her, or Eden, or any of our people here.

He absently rubs the hand I crushed into bone dust.

“You hung up on me,” I grit out, loud enough to swamp the sounds.

The memory burns. I barely got out my offer before he shut down the radio call.

“Eh, I prefer to do things the old-fashioned way, don’t I, Cole?” He waves a hand at the pretty boy wearing the “No farms, no food, no future” cap and a cocky-ass grin.

This Cole guy nods agreeably, his eyes bright with humor. “Sure do. Gentleman-like.”

Gentleman-like. Yeah. My fucking specialty.

“More old-fashioned than a HAM radio?” I mutter. “Did you bring the food at least?”

If they’ve brought some stock with them, maybe we can make a deal right here right now. It brings me right back to the same problem I had two weeks ago, though—I have no goddamned clue what to offer in exchange.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

Something tells me they ain’t here for the posh prince’s art collection.

Sawyer gives me a tense look. “Does it look like I brought?—”

Beau bursts through the trees, and the men behind Sawyer snap into action, slamming their guns up toward him. Jennifer is in his arms, bridal-style, her pants torn around her bloody, bandaged left calf. Her face is white with pain, and my brows crash down.