Page 12

12

Beatrice

It started with a flicker.

A faint glint off glass.

Then the soft click of a boot on gravel.

They were here.

I crouched near the back door, every nerve sharp, every sense open. The house was dark, the power cut minutes ago—exactly how we wanted it. We’d planned for this. Every exit. Every angle.

Mandy stood beside me, ears pinned, barely breathing. Mike locked up at Raven’s.

I gripped the hilt of my knife tighter and waited.

Three shadows. West side. Moving fast.

River’s voice crackled through the earpiece, clipped and calm.

Raven has the deck. Cyclone at north corner. Gage with me. Faron will be watching you.

There—Slate’s silhouette. He was bigger than I remembered. Heavier. But still moved fast. There were two others behind him—one with a suppressed rifle, the other with a gun. Probably planning to breach the back door.

Not tonight.

I hit the remote.

Flashbang.

BOOM.

Light exploded. Slate ducked. The one with the hand gun went flying.

I was already moving.

Raven’s voice came over the radio again, closer this time.

Two more incoming. Beachside.

I turned, circling behind the shed.

Then I heard it.

A voice I hadn’t heard in years.

“Still a hellcat, I see.”

Slate.

He stepped into view, pistol raised, smirking.

“You got sloppy, Bea sweetheart. You should’ve stayed underground. Instead you set off alarms and lit a fire under people who don’t forget or forgive.”

“You’re the one who should’ve stayed buried,” I said coldly.

He smiled wider. “This doesn’t have to end bloody. I don’t want you dead. You’re worth more alive. Information, leverage... a message.”

I leveled the rifle. “You always did love to talk.”

“And you always thought you could save the world. Who were you working for?”

“I don’t have time to talk.”

Behind him, Raven moved like smoke—silent, precise.

I gave the slightest nod.

Slate noticed it too late.

Raven slammed him from behind, knocking the pistol wide. They hit the ground, grappling hard.

I charged.

Slate bucked, rolling to his knees.

When he pulled his gun, Raven already had his out.

CRACK!

Gunfire tore through the night.

Slate cried out, and staggered.

“Enough.”

Slate looked up at me, blood on his shoulder, hate in his eyes.

“You think this ends with me?”

“No,” I said.

Then he died.

“One for Guatemala,” I whispered.

Then darkness surged in from the beach—River, Cyclone, Gage—sweeping the field, securing the scene, cuffing the unconscious.

It was over.

Not the war. Not the scars.

But this battle?

We won.

Raven stood beside me, breathing hard, face cut at the temple.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted. “But I will be.”

He took my hand.

Held it tight.

And for the first time since I burned that compound to the ground, I believed it.