Page 11 of Rook

“Shit!” I curse, feeling the predator inside me rise to the surface. Panic is a luxury I can’t afford, not when there’s steel singing death just yards away.

“Gun. Glovebox.” Rook’s words are bullets themselves—fast and demanding action. “Can you use it?”

“Damn right,” I snap back, yanking the glovebox open to reveal the cold promise of protection. I grab the pistol, fingers familiar with the weight as I slam the magazine home and chamber a round.

“This is great and all, but taking these bastards out with a pea shooter is like bringing a knife to a gunfight,” I snap, the pistol in my hand suddenly feeling like a child’s toy. The AR’s rattle outside is a grim reminder that we’re outgunned and out of luck.

“Dammit,” Rook grunts, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “There’s one place—Luka’s church. It’s fortified.”

“Are you sure? Luka…he doesn’t want to see me—“

“I think he’d rather see you now than see you never,” Rook scowls. The SUV rams us again, rattling my bones through the metal of Rook’s sports car. “Damn it!”

“Fine, head there. But if you get me killed, I swear I’ll haunt you.”

We barrel through an intersection, tires squealing a protest against the asphalt. The cityscape blurs past us—a maelstrom of neon and danger—as Rook takes a hard left, plunging us deeper into Pacific City’s concrete jungle. It’s a maze here, but he navigates it like it’s his own bloodstream.

“Strap in, Stargazer,” he says, glancing at me with a wild fire in his eyes. “This ride’s about to get bumpy.”

“Like I have a choice,” I mutter, gripping the useless gun tighter, my body tensed for impact or gunfire, whichever finds us first. There’s no room for fear now, only the primal rush of the chase and the will to survive.

The city’s a blur, lights streaking by in wild, vivid smears. I can barely keep my head straight as Rook guns it down the backstreets, swerving around trash cans and dodging the late-night stragglers like we’re in some kind of twisted game where the only prize is survival.

“Call Luka,” Rook barks, his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Tell him he’s about to get some heavily armed company!”

I fumble with my phone, heart hammering against my ribs as I punch in the number. It rings once, twice, before cutting through to his gruff voice.

“Luka, it’s Aisling. We’re coming in hot—got tail on us like a damn comet. Open the gates; we’re almost at your church.” My words are a rapid-fire burst, each syllable laced with urgency.

“Got it,” he replies, tone ice cold, all business. “Be ready for a rough welcome.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” I shoot back, snapping the phone shut. The screen goes dark, the reflection of my own desperate face staring back at me.

We screech around another corner, and I grip the door handle tight enough to leave dents. Rook’s pushing the car to its limits, engine howling protest. There’s no time for strategy now, no chance for second-guessing. Our lives hang on the edge of a knife, and there’s nothing to do but hold on and pray we don’t get sliced.

“Here!” Rook yells as the looming shape of the church materializes out of the night. He slams on the brakes, tires skidding across the pavement, and we come to a jarring halt just shy of the wrought-iron fence enclosing holy ground.

“Where’s Luka?” I gasp, scanning the darkness for any sign of our volatile savior. But then, the car behind us jerks to a stop, and for a split second, the world falls silent—until the crack of a gunshot shatters it to pieces.

My neck burns, Luka’s mark pulsing like it’s alive. And that’s when I see him, stepping from the shadows, gun still smoking in his hand.

He’s the angel of death tonight, and for a moment, time stands still.

I haven’t seen him in weeks…ever since we got back from New Eden, broken and bruised.

Gunfire erupts, a staccato thunder ripping through the night. Bullets chew into the church’s ancient facade, sending stone and dust flying like shrapnel. I’m out of the car, gun in hand, the cold weight of it as familiar as the dread coiling tight in my gut.

“Move!” Rook barks, ducking low as he joins me behind a toppled pillar. His eyes are hard, his jaw set. We’re sitting ducks out here, and we both know it.

“Cover me,” I say, not waiting for his nod. I dart from our cover, squeezing off shots with grim precision. The return fire is relentless, but fear sharpens my senses, narrows the world to the split second between life and death.

“Got one!” Rook shouts, moments before a bullet grazes his arm. He winces, but there’s no time for pain—we’ve got our own apocalypse to survive right now.

I spot Luka then, moving like a shadow that’s found its wrath. His aim is true, each shot a promise of retribution. He’s a force of nature, and I can’t help but feel that pull, that dangerous gravity that binds me to him despite the chaos.

“Two more, on the left!” I call out, and Luka pivots, firing without hesitation. Their bodies hit the ground with finality, and a savage part of me wants to let out a roar as the survivors run off, shouting to get back in their fucked up car.

“Clear!” Luka yells, his voice a rough command that sends relief flooding through me.

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