Page 128 of I Am Salvation

“Contact! We have contact!” a voice replies amidst a flurry of static. “Multiple hostiles!”

The monitors finally stabilize to show a scene out of a nightmare. Hooded figures rush toward the SWAT team, their faces hidden behind masks, some brandishing knives.

Dragon drops my hand. “I have to go,” he says, his voice sounding unusually vulnerable.

“Dragon!” I call out after him, but he doesn’t stop.

“Sir!” one of the techs yells.

Dragon runs toward Jameson, toward the compound.

And I watch, helpless.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Dragon

I race toward the building. I know Griffin is in there now. And she’s alive.

A rush of hope hits me, but it’s quickly overtaken by a swell of fear when I remember the figures on the monitors. SWAT team members down. Cult members in cloaks and carrying knives.

I have nothing.

But my feet drive me forward.

As I draw closer, the sounds of battle become louder. Gunshots echo off the stone walls. I duck behind one of the SWAT vans, my heart pounding as the chaos unfolds from this closer vantage point.

Every gunshot could be Griffin.

No.

No, no, no!

Without warning, a cloaked figure rounds the corner, his eyes wild and maniacal beneath his mask. He’s armed with a knife, and he lunges at me.

Reflexes honed from years of evading punches from older and stronger boys at the group homes kick in. I dodge his lunge and counter with a swift punch to his midsection, followed by a sharp elbow to his masked face. He crumbles to the ground with a grunt. I snatch his knife, turn, and sprint toward the entrance.

“Hey!” an officer grabs me.

I yank away from him, adrenaline surging through me. I evade another officer and one more before I run toward the center of the compound.

The scene is a whirl of chaos and violence. The surviving members of the SWAT team are holding their own against the cultists.

A fresh wave of determination surges through me as my gaze lands on Griffin. She’s free from her bonds, and when she sees me…

Her blue eyes widen.

And for a moment, time stands still. Her eyes are the same ones that sparkled with joy when she opened her Christmas present from me all those years ago. The same ones that lit up every time I would play my drum for her. The same ones that silently called out to me for help that night she was attacked in her bedroom.

But her face is gaunt, and on her cheek…

A scar.

Still visible after all these years.

Does she recognize me? She last saw me when she was only five years old.

The violence around us resumes, and I duck as one of the cultists’ knives whizzes past my ear.

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