The Boy I Grew Up With

I wouldn’t.

Richter had hurt me. He’d intended to hurt Channing, and who knew where he would stop. Because of that, I was okay with this.

Because of that, my stomach was rock hard.

Because of that, there was no uncertainty about what we were doing here.

If I had stayed on that plane, I would’ve been in a whole different world. I loved my friends, but they lived in a privileged world. They were normal. Happy. Healthy.

They were whole.

Being here, sitting on this hill with these goggles, watching an attack in progress—this wasn’t the world my old friends were part of, not anymore.

This was Channing’s.

And as the first group slipped over the chain-link fence, I stood.

This was mine.

It was time.

CHANNING

Lincoln, Traverse, and I went together. We were the first round. We were all the same body type—lean and fucking fast. We were the best fighters, and moving as one, we came in from different directions.

Up and over the fence.

There were nine in the backyard: eight by the fire and another behind the shed. I approached it, so he was my guy to take down. We needed to move quietly, quickly, and as a unit as much as possible.

Lincoln saw my approach.

He flattened himself against the garage, then tossed a rock to land at the ninth guy’s right. When he looked, I slipped up behind him and struck. Arms wrapped around his neck, I stuffed a shirt into his mouth and pulled. I held as tightly as possible, my body almost wrapped around him like a spider. We fell as he started to lose consciousness, and once I felt him slip into unconsciousness, I let him go, kicking his body off me.

It happened so quickly he’d barely struggled.

The first was down. The rest wouldn’t be so easy.

I joined Lincoln. We moved to the other side of the garage.

He held up an arm. I took the signal, and we reversed positions as if reading each other’s thoughts. He stepped out. I moved in behind him, and he stepped back. If someone had been watching, they might’ve seen only a small motion in the darkness, but these guys were all drinking. It’d been two weeks since they’d tried to take Heather. They’d let their guard down. We had to strike while it remained that way.

I was the farthest inside, leading the charge, and I peeked around the corner.

Traverse had been waiting. I saw him on the other side of the house, having run a circle around the back. He nodded at me.

There were eight between us, four of them on the other side of the fire. Even if we moved fast, they’d see us. They would alert the others, or they could.

If we tried to lure one away, or two, we still ran the risk of them alerting everyone.

We had to strike at once, go as fast as possible.

I tensed, knowing Traverse was waiting for me to go first, but I held back. I wasn’t sure why. It was now or never, but then I heard a soft, “Hey.”

Lincoln and I both jerked around.

Chad, Congo, Moose, and three others were lining up behind us, all trying to flatten as much as possible against the side of the garage.

“What are you doing here?” Lincoln whispered.

They weren’t supposed to come until we had the front contained. Then we were going to all go in the house as one.

“Heather radioed. She said if we all took care of the eight out here, we could maintain the element of surprise.”

Fuck.

“What?” Lincoln asked.

Moose just shrugged, grinning at me. “Take it up with your woman, but it made sense.”

He was right. We had to move fast, faster now since there were so many that could be discovered.

“We each find one guy. Go fast and go hard. Take him out, and do it as quietly as possible.”

They all nodded. They were ready to go.

I peeked around to see if Traverse was still there. He was, and he mouthed, “What?”

I went. There was no reason to wait now.

We ran.

HEATHER

There was no sound.

I saw the whole thing—how fast each one moved, how efficient every step was. They darted around the sides of the buildings like ghosts, floating at a breakneck speed toward their target.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

They each took a person down, and I waited to hear a shout, a yell, but there was nothing.

Shivers went down my spine. Goosebumps rose over my skin.

They looked supernatural. They looked as if they had grown up training for this one moment, and they’d performed it perfectly. There were no mishaps.

I knew the music helped cover their attack, and I knew those men had dulled senses. The bonfire probably helped blind some of them, so they couldn’t tell what was happening—not quickly enough to do anything about it at least—but it still looked orchestrated, like a masterpiece.

Channing had told me to stay up here.

I was to keep watch, that’s what he’d said, but I knew it was to keep me out of the way and safe. He needed a sound mind. If I’d been down there, whether I could handle myself or not, it’d weigh on him. He’d be distracted, so that was done.

Now the guys were hauling the men away, hiding the unconscious bodies on the other side of the garage. Once they’d finished, they advanced on the house.

There were three other scouts positioned around the territory, and I hadn’t been put in one of the corners. Channing had picked a random spot, so I knew what I could see was covered by two of the others. I felt a restlessness inside of me.

He didn’t want me to go down there.

Go.

The command was simple and quiet, but authoritative inside of my head. Maybe it was my subconscious, or hell, maybe it was just me rebelling. I didn’t want to admit I was breaking ranks, but I did. I started down the hill.

I shouldn’t go down.

He told me not to.

It’d be dangerous.

I was still going. In fact, the closer I got, the more right I felt about it.

I was supposed to be down there.

I was meant to be at Channing’s side for this, whatever this last confrontation would be.

By the time I hit the fence, there was no stopping me.

Grasping the chain-link, I began to climb.

50

Channing

“Brent!”

Richter was yelling from far inside the house.

We moved in, all of the guys taking positions. Moose signaled to one of Traverse’s guys, and when I got the nod, I started forward. Traverse and I were supposed to go through the two side doors together, entering on both sides of the house. We’d done our surveillance. There were two others inside, one in the kitchen and another down in the basement. Three different men spotted.

Richter was yelling. We heard his footsteps. He was coming from the back.

“Channing,” Moose whispered.

I looked at him, looked where he signaled. Lincoln was there with a gun. His face was grim, his eyes blank as he handed me the 9mm.

I took it.

As soon as the gun shifted to my hands, Lincoln reached behind him and brought another one out. He took up right behind me, and we waited.

There’d be a final signal, the sound of an owl hooting, and we’d go in.

Moose raised his hand. Three fingers.

Two.

One.

Both men did the owl hoot, and I stepped inside.

Two steps in, Lincoln was next to me.

Traverse was on the other side of the living room.

The guy was at the sink, and he jerked, rounding. His hand grabbed for his gun on the counter.

Two bullets slammed into him. One in his shoulder, the other in his chest.

As I turned toward Traverse, Lincoln darted for the guy. He moved silently, catching him before he could yell and wrapped a towel around his neck. He pulled, keeping it tight until the guy fell to the ground, unconscious. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">