THE HOVER pounded through a white sky in a straight line toward the underground lake that fed the river.
“It’s got one exit,” Shane shouted over the noise of the hover, filling in Tor and the leader of the Argenti troops, Ronan—a man he’d met only moments before.
It felt odd staring at a man who’d been born to the Tribe. They’d been his mortal enemy since before he’d been born. Now they were on their way together to save Tessa.
Shane shoved a blunt finger into the air. “That’s it. Just the one door. His only escape is back down the river toward the city.”
Sanger pictured the old wooden door. The tammin vines that draped across it. The tunnel it led to. The old stone staircase, slick with lichen and flattened by time, writhing beneath the ground like an ancient snake.
Tessa was down there somewhere.
“Those tunnels are all over Vesta,” Tor said to Ronan.
Ronan frowned. “Who built them?”
“The ancients,” Tor said back. “Some of them are forgotten. Happens all the time. Kids are out playing somewhere and they stumble into some old ruin. There used to be a lot more people on Vesta.
“So, he has two choices,” Shane said. “Use the stairs. Or go back to Didgermmion. Our guys there have those blocked. Anything they didn’t destroy, we’re watching.”
“What’s it like down there?” Ronan asked.
“A cave, covered in green glowing shit. Don’t get distracted.” Shane’s finger shifted so it was pointing at Ronan, who made a face. “With a single dock about fifty feet long, sticks out into the water. We use that for loading. He goes there, climbs out, there’s a small landing, stone, slippery as fuck and then the stairs.”
Sanger closed his eyes. Envisioned the space, pictured Quinton rowing around, looking for the exit.
Ten hovers flew around them. Each hover, filled with soldiers.
Sanger would have preferred only to use his own men, but Tor had argued that his men were best served in the city, helping to organize the citizens since they knew it best.
So here they were. It was a mixture. Argenti soldiers, led by a man Ronan. Tor’s men, and a few of Sanger’s.
Fifty soldiers in total, armed and ready. Everyone wanted to save the woman who’d stopped the war.
They could have six hundred men and it wouldn’t matter.
One man could fight an entire army when there was only a single passage. He could sit down, line up a gun, shoot anyone who came at him until the bodies piled high and sealed off the exit.
But eventually sheer numbers would win. His gun would die, he’d get tired.
Another crew of fifty strong were manning the other end, and yet another crew were in the river, rowing silently through the tunnels.
They’d hem Quinton in. Trap him inside the tunnel or force him to come to the surface.
He was a rat trapped in a maze. With one chance of making it out of there: a felana with more guts than caution.
Tor put a hand on his shoulder. “You know you should let us handle it, wait outside.”
Sanger ground his molars together, glaring at the snarl of vine-wrapped jungle passing by them below. “Yes.”
“If you were anyone else, I’d insist on it.”
“Yes. As would I.”
“Are you going to?”
Sanger looked away from the jungle below them, met Tor’s face dead on. “No.”
A hard dimple glimmered in Tor’s cheek as he shrugged. “Okay then.”
“What’s the plan?” Freysa asked softly. The lines around her eyes were tight, her lips pinched together.
Sanger didn’t want to touch anyone, but he forced himself to mimic Tor’s motion from earlier. A touch could convey a lot between soldiers. Solidarity. Support. Respect. She needed that now. And she needed it from him.
Guilt was written in the lines of her body.
So, he brought up his hand and squeezed her shoulder. “You did nothing wrong. Vangeline probably told them to watch you.”
Her mouth pinched, that cocky tilt coming back to her head like she was compensating. She scratched her eyebrow with her thumb. “I should have seen them following me.”
He’d been so focused on Tessa, so obsessed with her, he’d let it distract him. Let it cloud his judgement. Same way he hadn’t been able to see the elegance of the solution Tessa had offered him. The one he’d refused to accept. “I shouldn’t have put it all on you. If I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have asked multiple people.”
Shane pulled his toothpick out. “It’s done. Why are we talking about it?”
Freysa tugged her hair into a bun with jerky motions and squinted as the sun drifted from behind a cloud. “It’s fine. I’m okay. Thanks, Boss.”
“We saw a bomb. We landed.” Ronan rubbed his hands together. “The night went perfectly. It’s a non-issue.”
Freysa’s nostrils flared slightly. With irritation or confusion, Sanger couldn’t tell. Maybe she was just as uncomfortable with the Argenti as he was coordinating with a man who came from a race he’d spent the bulk of his adult life fighting against.
Ronan grinned at her and clapped like he was ready to get down to business. “How are we going to do this?”
Tor smacked Sanger on the back hard enough that he had to take a step forward to maintain his balance.
“We go in pairs,” Tor said.
“I’m with her.” Ronan jerked a thumb at Freysa who frowned at him.
“Fine,” Sanger said. “Freysa, you walk on the left side. Quinton won’t expect you. He’ll go for Ronan. Then you glide right to him.”
Ronan’s brows went up. “You that good, slim?”
“Better,” he and Shane answered in tandem.
“You won’t even see her moving,” Sanger finished. “And her name is Freysa.”
Ronan’s eyes widened, and his gaze slid from Freysa’s face down her body.
Shane rolled his toothpick. “What’s my role in this?”
“Get low.” Irritation at every delay burned under his skin. Tessa was down there somewhere, under the ground with a known-maniac. He didn’t want to be up here, trapped in a hover. He wanted to be moving. Now.
“Tor and I will try to get a shot in first. If we get all the way to the bottom of the stairs, it’ll open up. He won’t have the ability to shoot us in wall. So, we’ll fan out.”
“It’s slippery,” said Shane. “Don’t rush. Walk slow. Check each step. The stairs grow moss faster than we can clean it.” He looked back and forth between Tor and Ronan. “The dock down there isn’t long, and the bank at the bottom of the stairs is small. He’ll be in a good situation to pick us off if he can.”
Tor lifted his com. “Armor up,” he told the men in the other hovers. “We move in pairs. It’s a long, narrow stairway. Watch your footing. You go down, you take down the ones in front of us. So, watch your fucking feet. Do not shoot unless you have a clear shot.”
Sanger leaned forward. “Freysa, that means you too.”
“Armor slows me down.”
“I’d rather have you slow than dead.” He looked at Ronan, so she wouldn’t have time to argue. “And Ronan, you two will go right behind me and Tor. We’ll try to distract him, while you fan out behind us. If he’s on the bank, Freysa you go for him with your knives while we try for a shot. If he’s in the water, it’s all shooting. And for fuck’s sake, clear shots only. He’s got Tessa.”
Which was the real problem. They couldn’t have a shoot-out with a man on a boat. It was too likely they’d get Tessa by mistake.
“You know this guy?” Ronan asked beside him, his accented Argenti voice low enough that no one else would hear.
Sanger shook his head. “Not really. He’s crafty, experienced, older.”
“What do you think he’s going to do?”
“Not sure.”
“I’d shove a gun in your woman’s neck and demand safe passage out of there.” Ronan’s words glimmered across the hover.
Everyone heard.
They all went quiet.
“That’s the obvious move,” Shane said.
“One mile out, Boss,” murmured the pilot from the front.
Sanger looked at Shane. “What would you do if you were Quinton?”
Shane’s cheek moved as he toyed with his toothpick, rolled it to the corner of his lips. “I can’t see risking the stairway. Tessa’s too unpredictable. I’d ride the river back to the sea. Take her with me. Try to get to a boat or something.”
Then he’d be intercepted by the boats coming upriver behind them. “Quinton doesn’t know Tessa.”
Shane frowned. “Does by now.”
Sanger turned to Freysa. “And you?”
Her brows flickered. “Do I care if I live or die?”
Sanger thought about that. Quinton’s actions spoke of a man who wanted to live. Who wanted to get away. If he didn’t care if he lived or died, he wouldn’t have taken Tessa. “You want to live.”
“I’d turn myself in. Appeal to your better nature. Remind you that I could have killed Tessa but I didn’t. I’d ask for your help.”
Ronan asked, “And if you didn’t care if you lived or died?”
She smirked. “If all I wanted was you dead, I’d do all of that. And then right when you started to trust me, I’d slide a knife into your belly.”
Ronan’s eyes gleamed.
Sanger turned to Tor. Lifted a brow. Of all of them, Tor was the one who understood what it meant to Sanger most, having Tessa down there. “I’d shoot as many of us as I could. Until it started to hurt and we gave up. I’d bank on the fact that you wouldn’t want to lose ten, twenty, thirty men. I’d shoot until my gun stopped working or my breath gave out.”
Tor was the stubbornest fucker Sanger had ever met.
“What would you do, Boss?” asked Shane.
Sanger didn’t have to think about it. His stomach twisted with a pain so violent and intense, at first he thought it was physical. But it wasn’t. It was the grief, settling into his chest. “If I were Quinton, and I knew there was no way in hell I’d ever let him live, I’d kill her. Dump her body in the river. Float along with it, lips above the water.” He swallowed because his throat was tight. “I’d wait until someone found her, then swim under their boat while they were distracted. Upside-down their boat. Hold them under until they drowned. Use their boat to get to the sea.”
He couldn’t breathe.
Ronan whistled.
Vaniiya, don’t let that happen. He couldn’t do it. Not without her.
“Let’s hope this fucker’s nothing like you then,” Tor said, pulling armor from behind the seat and passing it around.
They helped each other strap up.
The hover touched down.
The doors opened.
They all started running. Soldiers all around them falling in line. Moving in two’s, armored up themselves.
THE STAIRS WERE QUIET. Not a sound but for the dripping of water, the cavern’s endless echo, and the occasional scuff of boot or creak of armor as they walked down.
The green fungus made him think of her, crawling across the bed. I love you.
And he didn’t fucking say it back.
No one slipped.
When they got to the bottom, he and Tor took matching stances, crouching low, so Shane and the other soldiers could see too. Freysa and Ronan fanned out beside them. Until they all stood, staring at the dock.
Tessa.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
He couldn’t think past that.
Thank fucking everything that was ever holy in the entire universe, she was alive.
And staring at him.
Sitting at the end of the dock, the green lights shining in her eyes. Her legs were crossed beneath her, her arms behind her back.
Her face was a mess. Her left eye was swollen shut, a mess of mangled red and purple. Her lip was split.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
And Quinton had hurt her.
He would die, slowly and painfully.
Tessa was sitting perfectly still, her one eye wide, staring at Sanger. He wanted to run to her. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and carry her out. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to say he was sorry and he should have listened and if only he had, this wouldn’t have happened. He wanted to strangle Quinton, wake Manivietto up from the dead so he could kill him again. Mostly, he just wanted to touch Tessa’s body, feel her warm skin, know she was safe and far away from Quinton.
But he couldn’t do that.
Because Quinton didn’t think like Tor, or Freysa, or Ronan, or Shane or him. Quinton thought like Quinton, and what his miserable, obnoxious, filthy mind had decided to do, was stand on his boat, right behind Tessa, use her body as a shield, hold a gun to her back, and try to negotiate. Not with kindness like Freysa had suggested. With fear.
“Safe passage or your cunt is dead.” His voice whipped out like a slap.
He was a fucking dead man.
Fucking Ronan was right.
45
squinting looks like flinching
FIVE YEARS AGO, Sanger would have come in hot, guns ablaze with a rage so scorching he’d have lit the sun above on fire. He’d have made sure Quinton died hard and painful. He’d probably have lost his life in the melee and wouldn’t have even given a shit.
Now he knew different.
The only thing that mattered in this situation was living, waking up to another day with Tessa by his side.
So instead of giving in to the worry, the panic, the fear, the grief, the simmering rage, he did the opposite. He held his hands up high, so Quinton could see them.
“Whatever you want, Quinton. I’ll agree to it. Just let her go.” Keeping his motions slow, non-threatening, careful, he unhooked the band that held his gun, set it down on the slick stone bank that connected to the dock.
He didn’t meet Tor’s eye, or Freysa’s or Shane’s. No point. They understood him fine. Tessa would too.
Holding his hands in front of him again, so Quinton could see him clearly, know he wasn’t a threat, he took the five steps down the bank, until his boots hit the wooden dock where it was slippery wet, dark everywhere, and crawling with the lichen.
“I want a transpo ticket.” Quinton called out.
“Where to?”
“Pilan. I got dealings there.”
“Done. What else?”
“Yenna. I want my yenna. I got my own holdings. Don’t freeze it up.”
“I don’t care where you go or how rich you are.” Sanger stared at Tessa, at her beautiful busted-up face where she cowered before him, locked in Quinton’s grip. “I only care about one thing in the world.”
Her lips quivered.
Quinton crouched on the dock behind her.
He was too close to Tessa. It wasn’t worth it. None of them could get a clear shot. Not with the angle. The bank was too small to let them get wide enough.
“Call in the transpo. As soon as they come, Tessa and I will walk out. She’ll come with me. You can have her back as soon as I’m safe on Pilan.”
Sanger spread his hands wide. “You’ve got to know there’s no way I’m letting you walk out of here with her, let alone take her on a transpo to Pilan of all places.”
“Call the transpo then. It can be on its way while we negotiate.” Quinton tugged on Tessa’s hair, pulling that beautiful neck to a tighter arch.
Sanger snarled.
Quinton’s laugh was as quiet as the rushing water.
Behind him, the scuff of boots told him men were filling up the bank, filing onto the dock, some of them would be kneeling, they’d all be looking for the perfect angle.
None of them would have it.
Sanger took a few more steps toward Quinton and Tessa.
They were only ten maybe twenty foot-lengths away now.
Tessa flinched. Hard. What the fuck was he doing to her? Then she flinched again, her one un
busted eye squeezing shut.
No, not a flinch.
He tried to imagine being Tessa. She’d be thinking over there, planning, fighting in her head. But she had no way to communicate. Any noise she made, Quinton would hear. She couldn’t move, not with her hands behind her back.
But she could squint that one unbusted eye.
And apparently squinting looked like flinching because she was Tessa. Of course, the motion would be bigger, broader, more exaggerated.
Okay. He blinked himself, hoping she’d understand.
He took another slow step forward.
Three rapid flinching blinks.
What was she trying to tell him?
Two rapid flinching blinks.
One rapid flinching blink.
Three. Two. One.
A countdown?
Shit.
Tessa’s arm raked out—the arm that was supposed to be tied behind her back. She had a knife in her hand. It was a tough angle, trying to stab someone behind you.
But she was good. She spun with the motion. Put her body in it. She’d been aiming for his center mass and she struck it.
Quinton shouted.
Sanger took off running, down that long, skinny, lichen-slick dock.
Quinton reared back, the continued motion of his original dodge to avoid the blade, and lost his footing on the boat.
Tessa lost her grip on the knife, but it didn’t matter.
She was free of him which was the whole point.
Quinton staggered in an awkward lurch, grasping for her, his hand wrapping around the thick mass of her long black hair.
It all happened in the space between two heartbeats.
Shots rang out.
And blasted ineffectually into the cavern wall opposite.
Because Quinton wasn’t there.
And neither was Tessa.
They were in the water.
Under the surface. Nothing but a green shimmering ripple to mark where they’d gone under.
SANGER HIT THE WATER a second later and dove under. His pants stuck to his thighs, the drag slowing him down. His boots were heavy, making kicking awkward.
It didn’t matter.
Quinton was swimming back toward the dock.
Sanger broke the surface, sucked in air, went under and kicked harder.
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