Page 220 of Without a Trace
I jumped down, boots crunching against wet gravel.
“Something’s wrong,” Zeke said. “Too quiet.”
“We’re being watched,” Trace added.
Kane scanned the tree line, sliding off the safety on his rifle. “Feels like the woods are holding their breath.”
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Gunfire.
“Down!” Zeke shouted.
The truck beside us screamed with sparks. Metal twisted. Glass shattered.
Trace grabbed me by the waist, pulling me behind him. I hit the ground just as a bullet tore through where my shoulder had been.
Everything exploded.
Rounds lit up the trees. Red Veil soldiers swarmed from the underbrush—black tactical gear streaked with crimson, masks covering half their faces.
Not shadows.
Killers.
They dropped from the branches like ghosts—scarves of crimson, curved blades, eyes wild.
Rhett pulled Sloane into cover. Kane fired back, fast and clean. Zeke swept left, gun drawn, already calling orders.
“Hold your fire,” came a voice like honey laced with venom.
Brielle.
She stepped out first, graceful as sin, her red scarf tied loose around her throat, lips curled in amusement. “No need to take itpersonally,” she called out, eyes locking on me. “Lena just really wants you dead.”
Footsteps behind her.
Lena stepped through the haze like a storm barely held back. No hood. No mask. Just fury.
Her braid was tight. Her grip on the knife too casual—like she'd been waiting for this.
Heat flared behind my eyes.
“I gave everything to the Order,” she spat. “And they picked the girl who didn’t even know who she was.”
“You chose this,” I said. “You picked power over loyalty.”
“I picked survival,” she snapped. “You’re the threat. You always were.”
“No,” I said, rising to my feet. “You made this choice.”
“I was supposed to be the heir,” Lena spat. “Not you. I bled for them. I killed for them. You were playing house while I buried bodies.”
“You buried yourself,” I said. “You buried your soul the second you picked them.”
Trace was still pinned near the first truck. Alden was farther back, cutting through Red Veil flank.
Lena moved fast, our blades clashed—sharp steel and sharper words. Every step was history. Every slash was a memory turned bitter.
