Chapter 8
ARMED, ARMOURED, HUNGRY FOR A FIGHT
Heathens - Twenty One Pilots
Hatchet
The library smells like dust and ink and old ghosts. My search of the forest was pointless. There was no trace of her beyond the tracks we made when we were out there together. No fresh evidence. Nothing.
Returning inside, something compelled me to come to the library. She’s gone. I know she is. I don’t know how or where or why but I know with every fibre of my being that she’s not on this island anymore.
I sit in the far corner, back to the wall, a book open in my lap. The words blur when the lights flicker. It doesn’t matter. I’m not reading. I just like the weight of paper. It reminds me of quiet. Brings peace where it feels like my whole world is splintering without her.
The alarms stopped about twenty minutes ago. Too clean, too sudden. That kind of silence means someone shut them off on purpose.
Nothing good comes from that type of silence.
Footsteps. Four sets. I close the book and wait.
Nightshade storms in first, all violence and command. Honey behind him, twitching with restless fury. Ghost limping, pale. Bones last, calm as a blade. They look like the aftermath of a war.
Nightshade’s eyes find me. “Hatchet. We’re moving.”
I raise an eyebrow, tilt my head. Why?
“Kayla’s definitely gone. Off the island in the chopper,” Honey blurts. “Taken. The doctor too.”
The words slide through me like cold steel. My hands curl on the table. Taken means someone in the asylum did it. Taken means there’ll be blood.
“Collateral or complicit?”
Bones adds, “Everything’s been wiped clean in the medical wing. Either Calloway and Kayla were taken together, or the doc opened the door. I think the latter is most likely. Anyway, we’re leaving. Going after them.”
I stand. The chair scrapes the floor – too loud in the hush. My body’s already moving before I’ve decided where to go.
Ghost’s voice trembles. “She’s pregnant.”
Everything stops.
Pregnant.
The word echoes in my skull, hollow and cruel.
My jaw tightens. The Bible on the table catches my eye; I snap it shut, the sound sharp as a gunshot. The gauze bookmark flutters to the floor like ash. Fuck the bible. She’s the only god I need or want.
I look at Nightshade. A question without sound.
His answer is just a nod, slow and absolute. “Mine.”
It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. But it does. The kind of truth that makes your stomach turn and your pulse climb until it feels like your ribs will split.
She’s pregnant. His. Not mine.
Do I believe him? Does it matter?
Nightshade gestures sharply toward the hall. “We’ve got a chopper waiting. Ten minutes.”
I nod once. Nothing else to say. My throat burns, but no sound comes. It never does.
Instead, I move. Fast. Controlled. Both hands fist tight until my knuckles pop.
We hit the corridor running. The silence follows, thick as fog.
The weapons room is three turns away, half hidden behind a supply corridor. Its reinforced door stands ajar. That’s wrong; it’s never left open.
Which means this move was deliberate.
Inside, racks line the walls, filled to the brim with tranquiliser guns, batons, tasers. The good stuff is locked in cages: live rounds, blades, real weapons meant for containment breaches. Bones moves first, keying in codes he shouldn’t know. The red light turns green.
Honey whistles low. “Merry fucking Christmas to us.”
He grabs a shotgun, slings a strap of shells across his chest. I take a pistol and one of the heavy hatchets from the lower shelf. It’s not my hatchet, but it’ll do. The handle fits my palm like it remembers me and choral music starts up in my head.
Later.
Ghost keeps to the corner, eyes on the door, still bleeding through the bandage at his thigh. Nightshade loads mags with mechanical precision. His movements are quiet, methodical – rage disguised as order.
Then a voice behind us: “You planning a field trip without me?”
We all spin.
Snow stands in the doorway, shirt half unbuttoned, grin lazy as smoke. He looks like he’s been waiting for this.
Honey growls, “You always have the best timing, Frost.”
Snow shrugs, steps over the threshold. “Timing’s everything. The alarms stopped, the guards vanished, and you lot are dressed for a bloodbath. I’d hate to miss opening night.”
Bones studies him, unreadable. “You already know.”
“About the doc?” Snow’s smile widens, just a little too fast. “News travels when the staff start deleting files.”
My pulse jumps. He shouldn’t sound that calm.
Nightshade’s glare sharpens. “Then you know she’s pregnant.”
For a heartbeat, Snow freezes. It’s tiny – a blink, a swallow – but it’s there. Then his grin is back, slower this time. “Didn’t figure her for the maternal type. Guess I was wrong.”
Honey mutters, “The fuck does that mean?”
Snow’s gaze flicks toward the ceiling – toward the black glass of a security camera. “Just saying,” he says lightly, but the tone’s too careful.
Bones catches it too; his eyes narrow. “Who told you, Frost?”
“No one.” Snow’s voice stays smooth, but a muscle jumps in his cheek. “You hear things when you listen.”
I tighten my grip on the hatchet.
Listening – that’s how spies talk.
Nightshade shoulders past him. “Grab what you need. We leave now.”
Snow steps aside, mock salute. “Lead the way, boss.”
We file out – me last, glancing back once. The camera light blinks red. Snow looks straight at it and smiles.
The kind of smile that hides a secret.
That smile stays with me all the way down the hall.
By the time we reach the stairwell, my pulse is hammering. Nightshade halts mid-step, head snapping to the side like a wolf catching scent.
The hair on my arms rises. Nothing. Silence.
He growls, “Let’s go.”
Up we climb, each step ringing like a death knell. My pulse hammers.
At the roof door, Nightshade turns, eyes pits of darkness. “Once we’re up there, it might get messy. Stick close. Don’t slow me down. I will not wait for any of you motherfuckers. She is the priority.”
Ghost nods, jaw clenched. I grip my gun, sweat slicking my palm.
Nightshade slams the door open. Cold night air knifes across my face. The roof is empty – too empty. Then movement. Shadows peel from the corners. Six, maybe more. Armed, armoured, hungry for a fight.
Nightshade steps forward, cracking his neck. “You’ve got three seconds to get the fuck out of my way.”
One of them steps up, calm as stone. “You’re not going anywhere, Night. Orders are to keep you contained.”
Nightshade laughs. Low. Menacing. “You think you can contain me?”
The air snaps, tension stretched to breaking.
“Shit,” Bones mutters. My grip tightens on my gun. Ghost shifts beside me, pale but ready.
Nightshade doesn’t wait. He moves first – an explosion of muscle and rage, a hurricane wrapped in skin.
He slams into the nearest man, sending him sprawling.
Gunfire erupts. Sparks rain off the metalwork.
My heart pounds as I shove Ghost against the wall, gun up, firing at the bastards trying to flank us.
Blood sprays. Shouts echo. Nightshade’s a blur of violence, tearing through them with his bare hands, faster and meaner than I’ve ever seen.
And through it all, I can hear his growl – low, relentless, a beast let off its chain.
Kayla. Kayla. Kayla.
We’re not leaving this roof without a fight.