Page 11 of Iron and Ivory

And every single one of 'em is sleepin'.

I let out a breath through my nose, real slow, and look at the ceiling, and then look back at them, and then look at the door.

So much for standin' watch.

So much for security.

So much for any of it.

So much for the siege too.

Which is weird.

I don't even decide to do it. I'm already movin', already got my boot on the leg of the nearest chair, and I shove it hard enough that the man sittin' in it goes sideways and hits the concrete floor with a grunt that echoes off the walls.

"Wake the fuck up!"

My voice comes out low and mean. It fills the room the way a sound fills a silo—all at once, no escape from it.

And every last one of 'em wakes up stupid.

That's the only word for it. Stupid.

Men lurching upright with their eyes still sealed half-shut, grabbin' for rifles they already got, rackin' rounds into guns that are already chambered, spinnin' around lookin' for a threat that isn't here.

Somebody shouts.

Somebody else drops a fuckin' shotgun.

The whole sorry display lasts maybe ten seconds and it feels like watchin' a bar fight between ghosts—all noise, no direction, none of it meaning a goddamn thing.

I just stand there in the middle of it, jaw tight, lettin' 'em sort themselves out.

Keep your mouth shut, Legion. Just let 'em get there.

"Calm down," I say, pressin' my palms out towards 'em. "Nobody's here. We're fine. Ya'll just fell the fuck asleep."

Includin' me.

Which every man in the room already knows, and to their credit, not a single one of 'em says it out loud. Probably 'cause they're smart. Probably 'cause they know what my face looks like when I'm already half-disgusted with myself and don't need the help.

I look around the room. Take stock. Chains has got one boot on, one boot off, and he's standin' there blinking like a man who's forgotten what light is.

Ratchet's got grease still on his hands from whatever he was doin' before he went horizontal.

Diesel's just... lookin' at his phone. Starin' at it like it said somethin' in a language he's not sure he speaks anymore.

"What fuckin' time is it?" I ask him.

He looks like shit. Hell, everyone looks like shit, but Diesel's eyes are so goddamn bloodshot they look like road maps to nowhere. He shakes his head. Blinks once, slow, like maybe the number's gonna change if he gives it a second.

"Well?" I ask again.

"It says… six pm." He pauses. Rubs the back of his neck. "But I'm not real sure what day it is."

Somebody laughs. Short and quiet, like they caught themselves doin' it.

"What the hell do you mean?"