Page 136 of Faith and Fury

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Faith

My throat is on fire. I realize I’m screaming, over and over.

I don’t know how long they’ve been fighting. I don’t even know long we’ve been down here. All I remember is the bunker filling with gas, Fang throwing himself over me, and then waking up here.

Wherever here is.

I-9 lifts Fang over his shoulders and tosses him into the wall. Chalky plaster flakes off with the impact, scattering around Fang’s body.

Get up! I try to sign, my hands bound in front of me. Please, get up!

The building reminds me a little of the shooting range—low ceilings, no windows, long and narrow. Fang and I-9 are separated from the rest of us by tattered fencing. Honestly, the whole place looks like it was meant to be torn down years ago. It’s not just abandoned—it’s decrepit.

The old alpha stands with four ringleaders in the corner, protected by armed guards. Vaguely I wonder if I could take them. Probably, if all the rogues banded together, we’d have no trouble … but not all of us would make it.

After all, it’s not only electric batons the guards are carrying.

Fang knocks I-9 a couple paces back. He lands a couple extra blows in vicious succession. Quick and clean, I remind myself. That’s the game plan.

I-9 doesn’t know what hit him. He stumbles, dazed, and I start to relax—trusting my mate—when it happens.

Fang misses a step. And I-9 lunges.

They crash to the ground. Fang is pinned. I-9 is holding nothing back.

Throat still burning, I grab the fence, rattling anxiously.

“Omega!” one of the guards snaps. “Back off!”

Fuck you, I snarl silently. One of my fellow rogues tries to pull me away, for my own safety. I shrug them off.

“Omega!” the guard shouts again. When still I don’t budge, he crosses the room, baton at the ready. I can sense the old alpha’s eyes on me, watching curiously, and it only enrages me further.

As the guard rears back to strike, I accidentally shift weight to my bad ankle—hissing in agony.

That catches Fang’s attention.

With a roar, he shoves I-9 off and leaps toward the fencing. For a fleeting moment, our fingers touch between the metal.

And then the guard strikes.

Not at me—but my mate.

He thrusts the baton just far enough through the grate to clip Fang’s wrist. Fang stills, seizing, and collapses in a heap.

And just like that …

Everything.

Turns.

Red.

In that moment, it doesn’t matter that I’m the one who’s injured and bound.

This guard is so far outmatched, it’s not even funny.

---