Page 43 of Worshiping Faith

“We’ll need some men on the ground too. And backups inside,” I say.

Wilkes, the only one of us who actually has military experience, is already looking at me like he’s expecting orders.

“I need you on the ground with the backup group,” I say.

Wilkes snorts. “I want the whiskey if we make it out of this.”

“Done.” I turn to Zachs. “You take your pick of the towers.”

I’m not the best at long-range, not bad, but Zachs is in another league.

Trip, though? “You any good from distance?” I ask.

He nods once, sharp.

“Good. I’ll lead the ground team,” I say.

Faith’s head snaps toward me, eyes flashing.

She’s pissed. Doesn’t matter. I don’t lead from behind.

“How long we got?” I ask.

Wilkes lifts the binoculars, scanning the water. “Depends how good a shot Zachs is,” he says. “If he makes them doubt this, we could have hours.”

Faith turns to Zachs, eyes narrowing with calculation. “You can do like you did on the escape boat, right? Fire like a motherfucker and kill them all?”

I hate the way she’s looking at him. But she’s not wrong.

Zachs fired like a goddamn machine gun that night, deadly, unshakable.

He lifts a hand, trailing his fingers over her cheek, completely unbothered by the chaos around us. “Tell you what,Doc,” he murmurs. “You stay back with Wilkes, and I’ll play whack-a-mole until the deck runs red.”

“Let’s remind them just who the hell they locked up on this rock,” I say.

Chapter Ten

Faith

Wilkes moves through the backup group, his voice low and steady as he gives orders. The men nod along, taking their weapons with the same easy confidence Zachs has. No hesitation. No wasted movement. It’s just another day to them. Another fight.

They don’t want me out there. Hell, they don’t need me.

I can handle a gun, but these men? They were made for this.

I grit my teeth, my fingers flexing at my sides. I can’t just sit here while the men I love risk everything. Wilkes plans to lock me in our wing. Safe. Useless.

Not happening.

I wait for a lull, then step up to him, catching his attention before he moves on. “A word?”

He turns to me, eyes sharp, one brow lifting like he’s already entertained by whatever I’m about to say.

“Lock me in the block,” I say.

He wets his lip, studying me. Too sharp, too damn perceptive. “You’re being reasonable,” he says slowly, like he’s turning the words over in his head. “What are you up to?”

Damn it.

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