Page 310 of Primal

Dimly lit. No angles on Derek, only the girl he caught.

Tied to a chair. Gagged. Tears down her face.

The monitors are looping each player’s death in HD. The kind of shit that sticks behind your eyelids.

Payton whirls to me. “He’s not in there.”

I jam my knife into the door’s seam. “He’s watching.”

She rams her shoulder into it. Once. Twice. “Get her out.”

I drag her back. “Stand clear.”

The lock’s heavy-duty—government-grade shit. Kicking it would just shatter my kneecap.

I scan the hallway.

Fire extinguisher.

My fingers close around the casing. Boot to the wall.

Heave.

My shoulder blazes white. Something tears—muscle, tendon, my last fuck to give. Doesn’t matter. My fingers are numb around the metal.

“Move.” Payton skids in, hip-checking me just enough to steal the angle.

Her fingers wedge under the bracket, forearm cords stretched taut. Blood wells where the metal bites her palms. She keeps going.

I replant my hands over hers.

One brutal yank—

The bracket shears off the wall, taking drywall and screws with it.

The extinguisher comes free like a bad tooth, slamming into my thigh. The jolt shoots straight to my jaw.

“Cover your face,” I grit out.

Payton doesn’t listen, of course. Just stares at Kristy through the glass, breath coming in wet hitches.

I swing—aiming for the frame, not the glass.

First hit. Steel on steel. The frame dents, ringing loud. The viewport shudders but holds.

Second. Metal groans. A crack spiders through the wire-mesh glass.

One more. The deadbolt snaps. The door blasts inward.

I step over glass, knife up, scanning the shadows.

“Kristy …” Payton lunges past me. Claws at the duct tape. “You okay?”

Kristy nods, shakes her head, nods again, eyes bulging.

No sign of Derek anywhere. Only two bodies—Neck Tat and Sandwich Guy. Plus a note on Kristy’s chest—Tag. You’re it.

The tape rips free. Kristy gasps, sucking in air. “Watch out!”