Chapter 25 Adam
Adam
The rain came harder, hammering down like the sky wanted to bury us. Mud sucked at my boots, heavy and slick, every step an effort. My rifle was almost dry—five rounds left, maybe less.
Hawk’s weapon clicked empty. “I’m out!”
Russ shifted to cover him, calm as always, but his fire was slower, more deliberate. Rationing.
“Blade?” I called.
No answer. Just the wet rasp of a knife somewhere in the dark, followed by silence.
They kept coming. Masked, silent, disciplined. Not chaos—this was a push. A test. Blade was right.
A round snapped past my cheek, hot and close. I hit the mud, rolled, fired—dropped one, maybe two. My chest heaved, lungs burning. This was crazy. Did these men forget we were in Texas? They had to have at least fifteen dead men. Mercenaries only cared about the money.
“Adam,” Russ said, voice even but grim, “we won’t be able to hold this line another five minutes.”
I knew it.
My comm hissed—static, Boone’s voice barely punching through: “…under fire… Raine—”
Then nothing.
My pulse spiked.
“Adam!” Hawk barked, snapping me back. He was pointing down the slope.
Headlights.
A fresh convoy of vehicles roared into view, three… no, four of them. Engines snarling, cutting through the rain like wolves circling bleeding prey.
“Reinforcements,” Hawk muttered, his voice hollow. “And not ours.”
I clenched my teeth and lifted my rifle, even though the magazine was nearly empty. My men pressed around me, bruised, bleeding, outgunned. I knew Russ had a bullet hole in him, and I suspected Hawk might have one or two as well.
The ridge shook with the weight of new tires grinding through the mud.
And for the first time tonight, I felt the edge of something colder than fear.
We weren’t meant to win this fight.