Page 32 of Mayflower

Archer’s security guard approaches and starts reporting on the vehicles that are on their way, but Dad turns to me. “What did you cook?”

I roll my eyes and then look over my shoulder at his men, ready to go to war. “Why did you need so many?”

“One, for protection.”

“And two?”

“Some of them are special ops.”

“What does that mean?”

“You asked me for a favor,” he reminds me. “If we want to infiltrate Port Mrei, we need to get through their security.”

It’s been nine days since Raven’s disappearance, and everyone has pretty much lost hope of finding him. But not my dad.

He notices my confused look. “I am sending my men to Port Mrei for an intervention.”

“What intervention?” My heart stills. “You have news about Raven?”

“No. But I have news about Skiba. He is alive and well. We will get him and bring him here, so he can tell us exactly what happened.”

11

RAVEN

NOW

It takes two days to prepare everything, and I’m about done with this basement. I can’t imagine how long these kids have been here. The walls are claustrophobic. Any loud sound coming from upstairs makes all of us instantly freeze in our spots, then Ali and I pick up the crowbars we keep by our blankets, motion for the girls to go behind the bathroom curtain, and we crouch by the door.

Occasionally, it’s Candy. The other times, it’s nothing. This scenario repeats itself several times a day. The rest of the time, the girls tell us stories, read their book. We all watch Ali pray. I might learn his prayer by heart by the time we escape this freaking place.

The first surprise is when we hear footsteps on the stairway and expect it to be Candy. But when the door swings open, four men walk in.

Shit.

Grabbing the crowbars, Ali and I jump to our feet, and my first instinct is that I can take them, despite them being armed, AKs strapped to their backs, though none in their hands.

One holds his palms up right away. “Easy, mate. Candy sent us.”

He is tall and heavily-built, but all muscles. Camo clothes, T-shirt, baseball hat. Short-cropped beard and heavy brows. He reminds me of someone.

The other three guys are shorter but equally strongly built. Similar clothes. Their hands are on the handguns in their waistband holsters.

“Shepherd,” the tall guy says.

So, that’s Butcher’s cousin. I see the similarities, but one thing is drastically different—his eyes. Not that cold cunning gaze I’m used to being confronted with when I have meetings with Butcher. This guy is calm as he takes steps deeper into the bunker, his palms still out in front of him.

And then comes an introduction. You’d think an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but Shepherd couldn’t be more different from Butcher. Younger, too, probably in his mid-thirties as are other guys. They smell like tobacco and leather. Their skin is darkly tanned. Their shoes are dusty like they walked through a desert. They talk in low voices.

The most peculiar thing—the girls don’t seem to be afraid of them. In fact, when one of the guys tosses the ball to the youngest and says, “How are you, Cammie?” I instantly let my guard down. Well, at least to a point.

The cots sag under the men’s heavy bodies as we all sit down to recap what happened and discuss my plan.

“We are in,” says Shepherd. “I don’t have many men. Maybe eight of us. And we’re not going into the quarters. Candy is right. It’s a death wish. We have to live in this town, and I don’t want Butcher to know I’m involved. We’ll protect you. We’ll create diversions for Butcher’s gang to ensure you get to their mansion. Inside, you are on your own.”

“Weapons?”

Shepherd gives us a list of guns and ammo he can spare, including a couple of grenades.

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