Chapter 7 · Water at St. Jude's

The kid wouldn't stop talking.

I had maybe three hours before Hammer's hunters picked up our trail again, and this scrawny fourteen-year-old was spilling his guts about water caches and civilian holdouts and how the Red Hammer crew had been using St. Jude's church as a collection point.

"They round up anyone who can't fight," he said. His name was Danny. He kept looking at the beacon we'd pulled off him like it was a live grenade. "Old people, kids, anyone sick. Say they're gonna move them somewhere safe, but—"

"But they don't." I didn't need him to finish. I'd seen Hammer's work.

Cole was checking the fuel gauge. We were down to a quarter tank and still fifty miles from Iron Gate. The truck we'd stolen yesterday was burning diesel like it had a hole in the line.

"Boss," Cole said quietly. "If we pick up civilians, we're not making it back before dark."

I knew.

Leah was crouched by the wheel well, rewrapping a bandage on her arm. She didn't say anything, but I could feel her listening.

Danny looked up at me. "There's kids there. Little ones."

"How many?"

"Maybe twenty. Thirty."

"Armed guards?"

"Two guys.