Page 58 of Sullied Saints

Two men step up. Their self-elected gate leaders, I guess. A half-dozen others are waiting just beyond sight of the gate. From their bulky shapes, these guards appear to be mostly men. And they all carry high-volume guns; ugly hard things in the hands of people who might never have been to a firing range in their lives. Even though they’re probably the types to have owned guns long before Cassandra gave them something to do with them.

I find my eyes drawn to those guns more than to the shadowed faces inside their hoods.

Six here. How many more inside? How many more with Cassandra? Our only hope is Tristan managing to separate her, get her somewhere we can snatch her.

Then, we never let her see the light of day again.

With the firepower in here, casualties are all but guaranteed if a squad has to come in.

The two leaders eye all of us, then nod to me and Dirk where we stand on either side of Needler. "You two. No others. No guns."

My shoulders tense. We’d discussed the possibility that not all of us would be allowed through. But that it’s me and Dirk, and the man recognised us so easily... Part of my brain is telling me to turn and run now, before it’s too late.

I turn to Howie. "There’s no point reasoning,” he tells me quickly. “We’ll just piss them off.” Eyeing the weapons, having known plenty of trigger-happy types, he adds, “But you don’t have to go on, either. We can still back out.”

I glance at Tristan, though his face is impassive. And Dirk, who gives me a small nod. We go on, then.

Howie knows my answer already, and he straightens, stepping back.

Tugging Dean’s sleeve, he puts his hands up, and Dean follows suit as they back towards the arch. I’m tense watching the men follow them with guns they wield like toys. Only one of them needs to fright for this to end horribly.

I release a breath when they’re beyond the line of the school grounds, disappearing around the fence. Now, back to our own lives.

It’s to be me, Dirk, Cassandra and Tristan. Like last time. "We have to," I murmur to myself.

Dirk hands over his handgun with a blank, somewhat angry stare, and I reach for mine.

My holster is empty.

I frown a moment, hand lingering. I manage to stop myself from glancing at Needler. Because IknowI holstered my gun, and I know he's got sticky fingers. But at the same time, these men are only going to check the cops, not the prisoner, probably knowing we’d never give Needler a gun on purpose.

Either way, I have a split second to decide whether I’m more comfortable knowing Needler has a gun, or that none of us has a gun.

"Hand it," one of them, the one with the longer beard, prompts me, his hand out.

I manage to meet his eye. "I didn't bring it."

Brow drawing down, he nods to the other. "Frisk her."

The hands feel fat and rough, bruising their way up my legs, a little too thorough around my ass, and by the time he's up towards my armpits, Dirk grabs the guy’s upper arm and bodily hauls his hands off me. "Think you've checked well enough, buddy." His voice is low but reasonable, and I watch the men stare each other down, wondering if this is over before it begins. The guy is thicker, but Dirk is taller, and he tugs his arm sharply back, eyes me one more time, and steps back. "She's clear."

That’s it, we're through. Dirk keeps the guy locked with his eyes while he takes Needler’s arm and pulls him towards the hill.

The sun has sunken lower now, and where the pathway leads under the supports of a raised brick building, it’s almost black in the shadows. We’re being watched, for sure. The darkness is almost a comfort as we sink into it. The ground evens out towards a brown, barren school oval ahead.

"Dirk?” My voice feels small in the dark, Needler marching ahead of us.

"Yeah?"

"After this, I want to do it. Move in together."

Dirk’s eyes glint at me, and I see his soft smile as the light falls across his mouth. “Well, it only took us walking into the viper’s den for you to agree.”

I don’t know if I’ll get to agree later, is what I don’t say. “Only that,” I agree, managing to return his smile.

Then, we’re out on the other side, crossing the central sports oval. Everything feels exposed and open here in the last light of the day. Spotlights that used to illuminate this stretch are either smashed or tilted over, having crashed into the buildings years ago. The sound of tyres reaches us, crunching over the poor condition of the roads. Dirk tilts his head in the direction of the noise. “That didn’t take long,” he comments.

“You think it’s civilians?” I ask, eyeing the crumbling school buildings that separate us from a view of the street.

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