Page 161 of Primal

Derek aims again—one hand braced on the altar.

“Hey!”

The scythe hooks into Derek’s shoulder. He stumbles sideways. The gun flies. Skids across the floor.

Wesley.

That guy was halfway to the exit.

Now he’s charging, swinging that fucking scythe. Must’ve chewed through those zip-ties, used a shard of glass or the knife—don’t know, don’t care. All that matters is he came back.

I lunge for the pistol. A Glock 19.

“Move,” I rasp.

Derek’s already backing up, one hand pressed to the wound in his gut, the other limp from the scythe hit. He clocks the gun in my grip.

“Wesley, move!”

He jerks away as I aim.

Derek’s gaze darts between me, Wesley, the Glock.

He’ll charge. Die fighting.

No. He bolts.

bang.

The shot hits the edge of the doorway—he ducks through.

Not the front doors.

A back exit—hidden in shadow behind the pulpit. Camouflaged until now.

I sag back against the stone.

The knife’s still buried in Derek. The scythe drew blood too.

But the bastard got away.

I take one step. Two. My vision whites out.

A yank. Wesley.

“You’ll be dead before you get past the door.”

I wrench my arm free. “Move.”

“Seriously, dude …”

The doors crack open. Wet air swallows the rest of his words.

Payton.

Dripping. Bloody.

She stops when she sees me.