Page 88 of Worshiping Faith

Trip.

I flash Trip a grin and lunge toward the next poor bastard in my sights.

The asshole didn’t see it coming, shudders under me, his body going limp as my knife buries deep in his gut.

I twist it for good measure. Slow. Cruel. Just enough to make sure he feels it before he’s gone.

He lifts a shaky hand, maybe to fight, maybe to beg, either way, fuck that.

I slice his wrist, severing the tendons.

Blood sprays, warm against my face.

Perfect.

I lean in, watching the light fade from his eyes.

Then, silence.

Not real silence. Not the beautiful, absolute kind.

But the shift. The lull after the storm.

Still groaning. Still whimpering. But no more gunfire.

I lift my head, chest heaving.

Trip stands a few yards away, his gun holstered.

I scowl. The fuck is he doing?

I scan the yard. Bodies. Blood. Not enough.

Not nearly fucking enough.

“Get this shit on the boat. Leave nothing,” Dax shouts.

“You heard him! Strip this fucker down!” Irish bellows.

My head snaps toward the sound of his voice.

Irish.

Still breathing.

Fucking hell.

I roll off the dead prick beneath me and shove my blade back into its sheath.

One failure at a time.

A sharp sting flares in my leg as I push to my feet.

I glance down.

My pants are torn. Blood soaking through the fabric.

Fuck.

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