Page 109 of Hide From Me

Proof that maybe—maybe—I’m not broken beyond repair.

I move before I can think.

He’s clipping the rope to the second hostage’s vest when I slam into him with my shoulder, hard enough to knock him off balance.

“What the hell—?”

I rip the clip from his hands and finish the job myself, fastening it into the back of his vest and yanking the release.

“Thank you, Jon,” I whisper more to myself than to him.

His eyes snap to mine, wild with disbelief. “Moe—”

But I’m already turning and running.

Gunfire erupts from across the street, slamming into the rooftop in bright sparks. I don’t flinch. I don’t stop. I grip the rope still dangling through the gaping hole in the roof and jump without thinking. My boots hit the floor hard enough to echo like thunder.

As soon as I hit the bottom level, I meet them.

Masks. Rifles. Trained stances.

They’re not fast enough, though.

My body moves before my mind can catch up. Muscle memory and instinct take over. The blade in my hand becomes an extension of my rage. The first goesdown, gurgling. The second barely raises his gun before the butt of mine slams into his throat.

Adrenaline doesn't just pump; it screams.

And all I can think about—all I can feel—is her.

Raylen.

The girl who makes scowls and chaos feel like safety. The one who flinched her way through a confession that no one else would have survived telling. The one who thinks she’s unlovable because of what she did.

I didn’t care then, and I don’t care now. I just want to get back to her.

Because for the first time since I was a kid, I know who the hell I am.

I’m not my mother’s volatility. I’m not my grandfather’s shadow. I’m not the false fronts I wear like armor.

I’m his son.

That has to mean something.

Gunfire kisses the wall near my head. I dive, roll, and return fire. Two drop; one screams.

My shoulder is bleeding again. I feel it soaking through my shirt, hot and steady, but it only sharpens my focus. I push deeper into the darkness. Away from the roof. Away from Jon.

More boots thunder in from the stairwell. I slam the butt of my gun into one soldier’s face, hearing bone crack. Another raises his weapon, so I break his stance with a knee to the gut and a shot to the chest. I’m not counting bodies anymore. I’m not even thinking. I’msurviving.

The rumble starts above in the distance but it’s growing.

The second bird.

Hope crashes through me like a defibrillator, so I shove back up the stairwell, one blood-slick hand on the railing, body screaming with every movement only pushing through because I know I’m not alone.They’re still coming.

But so is the light.

Not just the chopper’s floodlights that skim the roof—her. It’s the thought of her pulling me forward like gravity.