Page 63 of Worshiping Faith

Call them? Beg them not to kill my men?

Useless.

I rummage through the rest of the box, but there’s nothing helpful. No codes, no files, no maps. Just scraps of a life Fredricks thought he was going to keep living.

I shove the phone into my pocket, grab a pair of binoculars, and make my way up.

The wall will be crawling with men.

But the brass wing? Higher ground.

I climb to the roof, moving carefully, heart hammering. At the edge, I lower onto my stomach, inching forward to peek over.

The wind bites at my skin as I lift the binoculars, adjusting the focus.

Out there, the boat waits.

Waiting for what?

For Dax and the others?

Or for a signal to storm the island and end us all?

Before locking onto the boat, I scan the yard, the wall, our army.

They look different now. Focused. Intent. No reckless fights, no bickering, no backstabbing. For the first time, they understand, if we don’t work together, we die here.

I shift my focus back to the water.

The big boat looms in the dark, its shadow stretching across the waves like something hungry. Our little escape boat bobs beside it, empty.

My heart slams against my ribs.

They really did it. They boarded. Maniacs.

The binoculars tremble in my grip.

There’s movement.

I squint, trying to make sense of the shifting shadows on deck.

Trip.

The always steady, always calm, Trip moves with the kind of precision that makes my breath catch. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

He drags his knife across a man’s throat, quick, deep, lethal, and before the body even hits the deck, he turns, raises his gun, and puts a bullet through another man’s skull.

No flair. No cruelty. Just pure, calculated death.

Then, there’s movement behind him.

My stomach plummets. “Look out!” I whisper, like he could hear me, like it would matter.

But before the threat can even register, something collides with the man’s back.

Not something.

Zachs.

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