Chapter 11 · Kill Order

The hounds hit the scent line at dawn.

I heard them before I saw them—baying, mechanical, wrong. Not like real dogs. Like something built to chase and never stop. Cain grabbed my wrist and we ran, but the ground was soft from last night's rain and my boots kept sliding in the mud.

"How many?" I gasped.

"Four. Maybe five." He didn't look back. "They're not tracking you. They're herding."

Herding meant a kill box. Meant someone waiting at the other end.

We broke through a stand of pine and hit a firebreak, open ground stretching fifty yards to the next tree line. Cain swore and pulled me left, toward a gully choked with deadfall. The hounds were close enough now I could hear their claws on stone.

"Down," he hissed, and shoved me into the gully.

I landed hard, ribs slamming into a log. He dropped beside me, one hand over my mouth before I could make a sound. His palm was rough, tasted like gun oil and sweat. I wanted to bite him. Wanted to scream.

The hounds poured into the clearing.

They weren't dogs. Not anymore.