Page 16

Faith

I walk with him, having little choice.

Zachs meets my eyes just before I go, and there’s something in his expression, something that says, stay calm, I’ll figure this out.

But it does nothing to comfort me. Not when the doors close behind us, sealing me off from whatever chance I had at safety.

Not when the only direction left to go is forward.

The guard doesn’t rush. He watches me, blinks slowly. Then he reaches out, dragging a finger over my lips. The touch is light, but it turns my stomach.

“You want to keep those pretty lips shut out there,” he murmurs. “I’ll give you something to do with them once we get where we’re going.”

Shit. Shit.

I nod, keeping my face blank.

He smiles like he’s pleased with my reaction, like he enjoys this game. His grip tightens around my wrist as he unlocks the door. “You try to run,” he says, casual, like it doesn’t matter to him one way or the other, “And I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

I nod again. I believe him.

The air outside is thick with salt and gunpowder and something heavier, something that clings to my skin and settles in my lungs.

The brass have their own building, separate from the rest of the facility, positioned on a slight incline.

Each step toward it feels heavier than the last. I don’t let myself slow down.

I scan the shadows as we move. Looking for monsters. Looking for heroes. Not sure there’s much distinction anymore.

Something moves ahead, jerky and unnatural. A figure stumbles into the path, dragging one leg behind it.

The thing is barely recognizable as human, its jaw slack, its head tilted too far to one side, like its neck isn’t working anymore. Blood stains its uniform.

The guard at my side doesn’t hesitate.

A soft pop cracks through the air, and the thing drops like a stone.

I recognize the attachment on his pistol. A silencer.

Did they know this would happen?

We keep walking. Five more times, he raises his gun. Five more times, the bodies hit the ground.

Not a single living guard or inmate in sight.

No Dax. No Wilkes.

Just me and him.

At the entrance, he pulls a keycard. Slides it through a reader. The beep feels louder than it should, like the sound of a cell door slamming shut.

The lock disengages with a soft click.

I step inside and know, instantly, that I’ve left Dax’s reach.

It’ll be up to Zachs, Wilkes… or me.

The door seals behind us, muffling the outside world.

Gunfire still echoes somewhere outside.

But here?

Here, I hear voices. Laughter. They’re laughing.

Outside, the island is overrun with the dead. Inmates and guards are being ripped apart.

And these men?

They’re celebrating.

I glance at the guard beside me.

He smiles.

It’s horrifying.

I smile back. My voice is smooth, steady. Fake. “Sounds like a good time.”

The bastard chuckles and presses his palm against my back, steering me forward.

We walk down a short hall, the laughter growing louder, the smell of sweat, alcohol, and cigars thickening in the air.

I brace myself.

I don’t have to wonder what’s behind that door.

I already know.

When we reach it, he doesn’t hesitate. He shoves me inside. “I brought the entertainment.”

I make a fast assessment of just how fucked I am.

Head count: sixteen. Scattered across the room, most with a pistol visible at their hip. Likely more hidden.

The back wall is lined with monitors, flickering with security feeds from across the island. Some show hallways, empty cells, the blood-streaked mess hall. Others show the yard, where bodies, some moving, some not, lay sprawled across the pavement.

At the center of it all, Sinclair watches me.

He’s seated at a long table, surrounded by five men who look just as relaxed, just as amused as he does. Cigar smoke coils in the air above them, mixing with the heavy scent of whiskey, sweat, and something more rotten underneath.

The table is a mess, stacks of cash, ashtrays overflowing with half-burned cigars, whiskey glasses smeared with fingerprints. A deck of cards sits in front of Sinclair, a hand already fanned out on the table.

It’s a fucking party.

It doesn’t stop when I walk in.

The only reaction is from the men nearest the monitors, one of them lets out a sharp laugh, tossing a folded wad of cash to the man beside him.

“You nailed it,” he says, grinning. “Finley’s down. Taking bets on who’s next.”

“Got a thousand says it’s that traitor Wilkes.”

My stomach clenches, but I don’t react.

They knew.

They knew Wilkes was helping Dax, and they let him walk out there anyway. Not because they didn’t care, because they wanted to watch him die.

A hand on my back presses me forward.

Priorities.

I can’t worry about Wilkes or Dax right now.

I need to worry about me.

Sinclair exhales a slow, satisfied breath and flicks his gaze toward my escort.

“Who’s dealing?” He waves a lazy hand, gesturing to the chair beside him. “Let’s up the ante. Bring her.”

I move without resisting, calculating. The guns, the exits, the way some of these men barely glance at me while others can’t stop staring. The ones watching aren’t the problem. It’s the ones who act like I’m just another chip in the pot.

That’s what I am to them. A game piece.

I step closer. Eyes on Sinclair.

When I’m within reach, his hand closes around my wrist, yanking me off balance.

He pulls me into his lap.

“Tell me, princess, you play jacks or better?” He grins, his teeth bared like a fucking predator. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m taking her first. Second go is up for grabs.”

He shifts, his hands heavy on my waist, anchoring me in place. “A thousand just to sweeten the deal.”

“I’ll see your thousand,” the man across from him says. He takes a slow drag from his cigar, eyes crawling over me like he’s already deciding what he’ll do. “Two hours with her?”

“Two, sure,” Sinclair says easily. He leans back against his chair, completely at ease. “I win, that’s four hours for me.”

The room doesn’t stop. No one hesitates.

The men around the table toss in their cash like they’re betting on a fucking horse race.

The ones not playing glance over occasionally, but none of them look surprised. None of them look like this is out of the ordinary.

It isn’t.

This is how things work here.

My pulse is steady, my breathing controlled, but my mind is running. Options. Exits. Who might turn on who.

Sinclair’s fingers press against my hip, a reminder of just how outnumbered I am.

I have one shot at this.

I just need to figure out when to take it.

Sinclair glances at his cards and tosses down two. Once he’s dealt the next two, he sets them down. His hand slides to my waist. Slow. Deliberate.

Then he draws my knife from its sheath and sets it on the table.

Shit.

One less option.

His hands return, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate.

He grips the hem of my shirt and drags it upward, over my ribs, over my shoulders.

I don’t resist.

They want that.

They’d enjoy it. They’re waiting for it. Just one excuse to take this from a game to something worse.

The fabric drops to the floor, and I force myself to breathe.

Someone across the room lets out a low whistle.

“Those look even better in person.”

Laughter. Low, cruel.

“Zachs looked at her like he’d pay to nail it,” another guard says, amused.

“Shit, I’d pay to watch what that psycho did with a woman,” the man across from Sinclair adds, tossing a card onto the table.

A voice from the monitors laughs. Unbothered. Distracted.

“He’d probably chop her up into little bits and make stew,” he says, shaking his head. “Fucking nut job.” Then, like it’s an afterthought, he turns back to the screens. “Wilkes is still kicking. Dodson is down. Who had Dodson?”

A round of groans and cursing follows, but the man who bet on Wilkes’ head is the loudest.

“Fucking Wilkes,” he snarls. “I’ll pay one of you to go take him out. Double if you get Dax.”

The room doesn’t stop.

No one flinches at the casual offer of assassination.

It’s just another wager.

Another man, one of the quieter ones, turns his focus to me. Steady. Intense.

“You saw what she did with Dax in the block,” he murmurs, low enough that it’s meant to dig under my skin. “She’d like it if Zachs pulled out his psycho on her.”

I meet his stare and don’t blink.

I know what this is. A reminder.

They were watching. All of them. Even before this.

I wasn’t winning this fight. Not against sixteen armed men.

New plan.

“Any extra wagers?” Sinclair asks, collecting bets as if this is just another hand of cards. “I’ve got an extra five hundred worth.”

They toss in their bets without hesitation.

Two of the guards fold.

Sinclair flips his hand.

Full house.

No one cares.

There’s no frustration, no disappointment. Because this was never about the game.

The quiet man doesn’t even glance at the cards. He’s still staring at me.

I turn to Sinclair, settling into my decision.

“Does that mean I get you all night?” I ask.

His fingers tighten at my hip. “You boys keep an eye on things,” Sinclair says.

I rise, steady and slow.

This is it. One on one.

That gun at his waist is mine.

We’re halfway to the door when Zachs steps inside.

His easy, lopsided smile is the first thing I see. That same quirky smirk. That disarming charm. Like he just wandered into a poker game and not this nightmare. For half a second, something like relief stirs in my chest. Then he speaks.

“Damn,” he says, dragging out the word, “I got here as soon as I could. Did I miss the bets?”

The room doesn’t react.

No one hesitates.

The relief dies fast and ugly.

Bile rises, hot and sharp.

Wilkes and Dax trusted him. For some reason his betrayal of them pisses me off worse than his betrayal of me.

Sinclair just laughs, still guiding me toward the door with easy confidence, like we’re on a fucking date.

“Safe to assume you won’t take an offer?” Zachs asks, cocking his head.

I blink. Trying to make sense of it.

Okay. He’s trying to buy me. That has to be it.

He’s playing along. It’s a way to get me out of this. A move. A tactic.

“I’ve got her for the night,” Sinclair says, chuckling, pleased with himself. “You’re two rounds behind on who’s next. Haven’t won yet. You want to roll your bets over before you get back to solitary?”

Zachs rolls his eyes, as if this is all just an inconvenience to him. Like he’s mildly annoyed at missing out. “That weak-ass Hogan still walking?”

Sinclair nods, steering me past him.

I force myself to move, but it takes everything not to turn and spit in Zachs’ grinning face.

His eyes flick to mine, still bright, still too damn friendly. But now I see what’s behind them. Nothing. They are cold. Empty.

Like this is all just a game to him.

I’m on my own.

After I put down Sinclair, Zachs will be next.