Page 19

Faith

“Dax!” I scream, but he’s gone from sight so fast it’s like he was never there.

“Stand up,” the guard behind us says, gun still aimed at my head.

“Easy, Sampson,” Zachs says, too damn relaxed. “She’s a shit shot and gives a hell of a blowjob.”

Sampson swings his gun toward him, finger tightening on the trigger.

There’s a loud crack.

A bullet whizzes past my ear. Not from Sampson. From below.

Another guard levels his weapon at Wilkes. “Dax was shoot-on-sight. You not get the memo?”

Wilkes shakes his head. “You miss the memo that we need every damn hand we can get?”

Another shot rings out. Closer this time.

Zachs yanks me against him like I belong there. “That why it’s just you two up here?”

Sampson sneers. “There’s more inside. We’re clearing the…”

A loud moan drags all our heads toward the open stairwell door.

A half-destroyed zombie stumbles through. Its body is shredded, blackened like it walked through hell itself. A grenade? A fire? It drags a melted arm, exposed ribs gleaming slick in the sun.

The guard aiming at Wilkes pivots.

Wilkes doesn’t give him the chance. He fires.

Blood splatters across the gravel. The man drops before he can react.

Sampson jerks toward him, but Zachs is already moving.

He snatches Sampson by the collar and drags him straight to the ledge.

I don’t have time to scream before he throws him over.

The impact is sickening. A wet, bone-snapping crunch.

Sampson tries to push up on one arm. A shadow falls over him.

Then another.

Then five.

The zombies descend.

“You still alive, Sampson?” Zachs leans over the edge, voice mocking, easy.

Sampson screams.

Then the shots come.

Not from below. From the next rooftop. A sniper.

The bullet whizzes past us, so close my hair moves.

“Fuck!” Wilkes knocks me down hard.

Zachs drops too, crawling low toward the edge.

“They shouldn’t have given you a gun,” Sampson chokes out below, voice wet, broken.

Another shot.

Wilkes presses me flat, shielding me with his body. “Stay low.”

Zachs peeks again, then yanks his head back. “He’s fucking gone.”

Sampson’s screams cut off, drowned out by the wet, brutal sounds of tearing flesh.

Wilkes pulls out his walkie and switches channels. “Hold fire,” he says.

The reply is immediate, staticky and sharp. “Fuck you, traitor.”

That voice is too close. The sniper is hearing us, tracking us.

Wilkes sighs. “You heard me try, right?” He switches back to our channel. “We’ve got hostile fire on the roof. Possible inside with you.”

Silence.

My stomach twists. Dax should have answered.

Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s in a fight. Maybe he’s dead.

No. No. I shove that thought aside.

“What’s the plan?” I whisper, wiggling under Wilkes’ weight.

“Don’t get shot. Kill the asshole shooting at us.” He nods toward the door. “And don’t let the snail over there gnaw our faces off.”

The zombie, slow but determined, drags itself toward us.

“Not a very detailed plan.”

Wilkes shrugs. “Easy to follow.”

Zachs frog-crawls toward us, too damn casual for someone being shot at. “Looks like only one over there. You give me cover fire, I’ll run across the catwalk and handle them.”

I stare at him. “That’s an even worse plan than Wilkes has.”

Another zombie lurches out from the stairwell. Faster.

Zachs tilts his head toward me. “Got a plan, doll?”

“Yes,” I say. “We crawl to the door, get to Dax and Trip, then get the hell out of here.”

“That’s a shit plan.” Zachs doesn’t even hesitate. “We need the roof. The ground’s crawling with them things.”

He’s right. The horde is spreading. We don’t have time.

“You’ll get shot if you try to cross the catwalk,” I say.

“Not if you two give me cover, I won’t,” Zachs says.

My brain races. Zachs will get picked off the second he runs. Wilkes might too. But me?

They won’t kill me. They want me alive. They’ll hesitate.

I feel Wilkes shift beside me.

Two more zombies stagger through the door.

Shit. We’re out of time.

Zachs raises his gun.

“I’ll go,” I say.

Both men freeze.

“The hell you will,” Wilkes growls.

“I’m not the traitor. They won’t shoot me.” My mouth goes dry. “They want me alive. For…” I can’t finish that sentence. I don’t have to.

Zachs’ entire body stiffens. His hand twitches toward his knife.

The zombies are too close.

Wilkes fires.

Shit. Shooting will make them think we’re engaging, that we’re trying to fight back.

My breath snaps in my chest. I don’t give myself time to think. I shove Wilkes off me. Then I run.

“Help me! Please help me!” My own voice sounds foreign. High. Frightened. I make myself sound like prey.

The gamble pays off. For now.

No bullets fly at me. No sudden, sharp crack of gunfire.

But I don’t dare look back. I can’t. If I do, I might hesitate, and hesitation will get me killed.

I have to trust that Zachs and Wilkes can handle themselves.

The scuffle behind me, the shuffle of boots and the wet, meaty sounds of blades meeting flesh, it’s all background noise.

“Get back here, you fucking bitch!” The shout is vicious, jagged with rage.

I almost stumble, my body jolting at the sheer venom in the tone, but I catch myself, using the slip to make my act more convincing. Wilkes? He’s helping cover my reckless ass the best way he can, playing into my act.

“Please!” I cry, voice high and desperate. “Zachs is insane!”

I know the other guards think that. Hell, they’ve said it enough times. It’s my best bet. Let them believe I’m a terrified woman, running straight into the arms of someone safer, someone like them.

I step onto the catwalk without slowing, ignoring the groan of rusted metal beneath my boots. The sniper is there, crouched just beyond the door, rifle tucked close to his chest. His position is strong, cover, high ground, but he’s alone.

I slow now, inching forward. Hands raised. Open. Weak.

“Please,” I beg, voice shaking. “Don’t hurt me. They’re savages.”

“Faith!” Zachs’ voice cuts through the air. “When I get my hands on you—”

I shudder, playing right into it. “Please,” I whisper. “They’ll do worse than kill me.”

The sniper watches me. His gaze flickers with something, not sympathy, but calculation.

He buys it.

“Quick, back here with me.” He jerks his head toward the doorway, motioning me closer.

I hear muffled shots behind me. Someone’s still fighting. Good.

I hurry forward. He’s cleaner than most, well-groomed, uniform crisp. One of Sinclair’s men, no doubt. He reeks of power, of a man used to being in control.

I hate him instantly.

But I keep my mask in place, eyes wide with gratitude. “Thank God you were here.”

He grabs my arm, steadying me, and inhales deeply.

He smells me.

Fucking smells me.

The revulsion that rises is instant, white-hot, but I let it twist into something else, submission. My shoulders drop. I let him pull me further inside, let him shift me to the side as he peeks out.

That’s his mistake.

I don’t hesitate.

My knife is in my hand before he even registers the movement. The blade slices across his throat, deep, sharp.

He jerks, eyes flaring wide, hands flying to his neck as wet, bubbling gasps burst from his lips. His body convulses, thick, dark blood spilling through his fingers, splattering across his pristine uniform. The scent of iron floods my nose, hot and sickly.

I don’t let go.

I drive the blade deeper, twisting, feeling the cartilage give way, feeling his pulse shudder beneath my grip.

He tries to speak.

Nothing comes out but a choked, gurgling rattle.

His knees buckle, dragging both of us down. I wrench my knife free and shove him off me. He hits the ground hard, body twitching, blood pooling fast.

I stare down at him.

That’s one less asshole.

Dax would be proud.

Or pissed.

Either way, there’s no time to think about it.

I wipe the blade on his sleeve and turn back to the fight.

Before I step out, I grab the rifle. It’s heavier than I expect, its weight solid against my shoulder as I sling the strap across my chest. My fingers are sticky with blood, warm, thick, and drying too fast. I wipe them on my pants, but it only smears, the scent of iron clinging to me.

Footsteps.

Fast.

I whip around, pistol raised. “Say something or I’ll shoot you.”

“Faith, Jesus,” Wilkes’ voice, sharp but his again. Less cold, more grounded. Still edged in something raw. He skids into the doorway, breathing hard, eyes cutting straight to me.

His expression changes in an instant. “Are you hit?” He crosses the space fast, hands skimming over me, searching . His touch is brisk, clinical, over my arms, my side, my stomach, checking every place I’m smeared in blood.

I shrug back before he can go further. “It’s not mine. That’s his.” I nod toward the body, my voice flat. “I’m fine. Crazy, apparently, but I cleared the roof.”

Wilkes lets out a short, breathless laugh. “Leave the crazy to Zachs, he’s more practiced.”

Then— he hugs me.

It’s so fast, so unexpected , I freeze.

For one stupid, disorienting second, I feel the solid weight of him, the sheer relief in it, then I shove him back, hard .

“Hands off,” I snap, breath sharp. “And don’t you ever, ever , call me a bitch again and sound like you mean it.”

Wilkes blinks, taken aback, then grins. Not a smirk, not mockery, just that rare, easy grin like he’s impressed as hell.

Before he can answer, Zachs strides in, all casual swagger, eyes already on the body. He gives a low whistle. “Nice work.”

I shoot him a glare. “Did Dax answer yet? Trip?”

“Let’s just skate right past the fact that you sliced and diced ol’ fuckwit here.” He gestures to the dead sniper, shaking his head like he’s truly impressed. Then he flashes that unsettling, too-wide grin. “You’re gonna fit right in, doll.”

I don’t have time to unpack that, because Wilkes straightens, rolling his shoulders.

“Let’s go get Dax and Trip. Heard gunfire inside.”

I nod, throat tightening.

No time to celebrate.

No time to think about what I just did.

I holster my pistol, adjust the rifle strap across my chest, and follow them back out into the warzone.