Page 65 of Carnival Shadows

EDEN

Igrip the walkie-talkie in my hand, heart pounding as gunshots echo through the carnival grounds. I watch the security feeds with the other women from our vantage point in the haunted house’s control room.

“West entrance is clear,” I report to Remy through the radio. “Three hostiles moving past the Ferris wheel.”

Tilly leans forward, typing on her keyboard as she hacks into the Martinez crew’s communications. “They’re planning to flank from behind the carousel.”

“Got it,”Sofia chimes in, already redirecting the carnival’s lights to blind anyone approaching from that direction.

Alice and Lily coordinate with the ground teams, relaying positions through encrypted channels. At the same time, Flora marks enemy positions on our digital map. Aurora keeps track of our men’s locations, ensuring no friendly fire incidents.

“Two more coming in through the parking lot,” I warn, spotting movement on camera four. “Armed with what looks like semi-automatics.”

“I’ve cut power to that section,” Tilly announces, her fingers dancing across her laptop. “They’ll be walking in blind.”

The walkie crackles with Remy’s voice. “Good work, ladies. Keep those eyes sharp.”

Tilly intercepts another transmission. “They’re calling for backup. Five more incoming from the south.”

“Not anymore,” Aurora says with a smirk, holding up her phone. “Just sent an anonymous tip about suspicious activity near their staging area. Police will keep them busy.”

I feel proud watching us work together, each bringing our unique skills to protect our carnival family. This isn’t just about survival anymore—it’s about protecting what’s ours. The Martinez crew thought they could take us down but didn’t count on the women behind the scenes, coordinating every move like a deadly chess game.

“Movement in sector six,” I call out, spotting three more hostiles. “Heading straight into Colt’s trap.”

We continue in the same way for about half an hour until all of Miguel Martinez’s men are either dead or running for their lives.

At which point, all our efforts turn to treating the injured in the big top. Adrenaline still floods my veins as I walk in to find a few of them groaning and nursing wounds, but I don’t see Remy.

Flora is trying to tend to Colt and Nash’s wounds, so I approach to help.

“Let me,” I say, taking the gauze from Flora and pressing it over Colt’s shoulder wound. The copper scent of blood fills the air, mixing with antiseptic.

“Hold still,” I tell him, cleaning around the bullet graze. “It’s not deep, but we need to prevent infection.”

Nash groans as Flora tends to his bruised ribs. His knuckles are raw and bloody from the fight, but his eyes stay fixed on Colt with concern.

“I’m fine,” Colt grumbles but doesn’t resist as I wrap the bandage around his bicep. “Just a scratch.”

“A scratch that could’ve been worse,” Flora scolds. “You both need to be more careful.”

I move between the two men, checking their vitals and monitoring for signs of shock. My psychology background gives me enough medical knowledge to handle basic trauma care.

“Here.” I hand Nash some aspirin and water. “This should help with the swelling.”

Flora helps Nash sit up to drink. I squeeze her shoulder reassuringly—she’s holding up well, considering how intense the fighting was and having both of her men injured. Together, we work in sync, passing supplies back and forth.

“The bleeding’s stopped,” I tell Colt, securing the last of his bandages. “You’ll need to keep it clean and dry.”

Nash reaches for Flora’s hand, pulling her close despite his injuries. I understand the impulse after violence like this. We all need to feel connected to those we love.

I document their injuries if we need to reference them later and monitor their conditions. These people have become my family, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.

I rush to Remy when he walks through the door, my hands already reaching to check him for injuries. Blood stains his shirt and splatters his face, but his movements are fluid, unhindered.

“Are you hurt?” My fingers trace over his arms.

“Not my blood.” His voice is gruff as he lets me examine him.

---