Chapter 5 · Not a Fever

The ram slammed the gate before Julian even cleared the smoke.

Steel shrieked.

The entire catwalk bucked under my boots. The paper cup in my hand went over the rail, black coffee dropping twenty feet into the red-stained snow. Nobody watched it hit. Twenty rifles were already up, safeties clicking off in a ragged wave, and Theron was bellowing down the parapet to hold fire like his lungs could keep the mountain from falling.

The second hit landed harder.

A hollow, sickening crunch that vibrated straight through my ribs and rattled my teeth.

Down in the blinding floodlights, Julian Sterling stood with his hands loose at his sides. Like the valley belonged to him. Like the earth had finally remembered to pay its back rent.

Six years.

Six years, and the arrogant bastard still didn't bother looking up to check for snipers.

My traitor eyes took him apart in half a second. Gray chewing through the dark stubble at his jaw. Left shoulder hanging an inch lower under the heavy black coat. His left arm hung stiff, pinned against his flank, and his face had that hollow, predatory lean of a wolf that had spent years chewing on pure spite.