Chapter 37 Adam
Adam
The ridge was gone. Not the dirt or the rock—but the illusion of control.
My pistol clicked empty, useless in my hand. Hawk was swinging his rifle like a club, cursing with every blow. Russ had gone quiet, focused, using each bullet like it was the last breath of the world. Blade was a shadow among shadows, his knife flashing quick and brutal.
But they kept coming. Masked, relentless, disciplined, they had to have been on some kind of drug. Is that how they had so much control of these mercenaries? They loaded them with drugs to keep them working for them.
One broke through the line, slamming into me. We hit the mud hard, his weight crushing down. His hands clawed for my throat. I twisted, headbutted him once, twice, felt bone crack under my skull. He faltered—long enough for me to rip the blade from my vest sheath and drive it home.
Hot breath, rain, and blood filled the night. I shoved him off, chest heaving.
Another came at me. I ducked the first swing, took the second across the ribs. Pain exploded, white-hot. I staggered, then slammed my elbow into his jaw, following with a brutal kick that sent him sprawling into the mud.
“Adam!” Hawk roared, hurling another body off him. “We’re not gonna hold!”
I knew he was right. But the thought of falling here—of Raine never knowing if I was alive—ignited something savage in me.
I straightened, mud dripping down my face, blade tight in my hand. “Then we take as many of them as we can.”
Russ’s calm voice cut through the storm. “Stoker—behind you.”
I spun. Too late. A rifle butt slammed into my skull. The world tilted, rain blurring into black.
I dropped to one knee, stars exploding in my vision. Hands grabbed me, dragging me down into the mud.
And for the first time, a thought hit cold and merciless.
We might not walk off this ridge.