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They’re creeping closer, closing in on us from behind.
“You don’t know that,” Xero whispers and tightens his embrace.
I grasp onto his every word, desperate for any hint of reassurance. Breathing through my sleeve, I will my heart to slow and beg my sinuses to ignore the incessant urge to sneeze.
Just as I stifle another release of air, the phone at my feet rings.
“Over there,” someone roars.
I shrink into my hiding spot, but it’s too late. Rough hands haul me out of the shrubbery and into a broad chest.
He snickers. “Got you.”
“Stab him,” Xero yells.
The hand holding the scalpel swings up into his midsection, and I slice a path between his ribs. He screams, his grip slackening long enough for me to wriggle free.
“Run,” Xero shouts.
I leave the man to drop to his knees, all notions of picking up the phone forgotten as survival instincts push me forward. Adrenaline pounds through my system, numbing the pain of brambles piercing my soles and branches whipping across my face.
My lungs burn. Every inhale tastes like fear. Every exhale leaves me wanting to expel the contents of my stomach.
“Stop running or I’ll shoot,” someone yells.
“He won’t,” Xero snarls.
I round a shrub, seeking cover. This part of the weed jungle is even thicker, its canopy only allowing in a trickle of light. The air grows heavy with pollen once again, battering my sinuses. I struggle onward, eyes streaming, breaths wheezing.
Plant particles cling to my lungs like wet cement. Each step tightens my chest, making every breath a struggle. Tears blur my vision, obscuring my path as I’m forced to navigate with my arms outstretched.
A gunshot pierces the air with a deafening boom. Heart lurching, I trip over a root and tumble forward.
“Keep moving,” Xero shouts in my ear like a drill sergeant.
He’s right. I’d rather die from a bullet than allow myself to get caught. Digging my fingers into the moist soil, I haul myselfupright and continue stumbling. Another shot misses me by several feet, making me flinch.
“It’s a bluff,” Xero yells.
“Stupid bitch, I told you to stop!” A man charges forward, knocking me face-first into a tree.
The scalpel I’m holding drops from my fingers, disappearing into the undergrowth. I push against the trunk’s rough surface, trying to shove him off, but he’s too heavy.
He twists my arm behind my back. “You killed Vance and stabbed Bill. Delta’s going to punish us all.”
“You know how to get out of armlocks,” Xero shouts through my panic, reminding me of my training. “Move.”
Muscle memory kicks me in the solar plexus. I swing my free arm backward and strike him in the groin. Roaring, he doubles over and staggers back with a hand over his crotch.
Sirens sound in the distance. My heart leaps. I need to reach the police.
“Don’t run,” Xero says, his voice tense. “Take him out. Now.”
He’s right. This bastard will recover in a few seconds, then he’ll be after me again.
I reach into my hair and pull out one of the scalpels I hid in my bun. As I thrust it at his throat, he catches my wrist and lands a fist in my face.
His punch connects with an explosion of pain across my cheekbone, filling my vision with white. I stumble backward, trying to right myself, but the man shoves me back into the tree.
