Page 48 of Hunted

“Red Team, move!” I hissed, helping Eth to his feet while Beckett cut Lockwood loose.

Bodie—somehow completely unscathed—seemed torn. In the end, he glanced at the red patch on his arm, swore, and helped Mercy to her feet.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but when he relinquished her arm, she turned and helped Dak up, too—keeping Bodie in her periphery at all times.

“Keep the knife,” I said to Beckett. “You’ll be needing it when Sebastos returns after realising he was given a false keyword. Right, Lockwood?” I raised a bloody brow in his direction, and was rewarded with a smirk. “Shamrock isn’t the keyword, is it?”

“No.” He laughed. “It’s clover.”

“Clover?” Bodie repeated dumbly. Perhaps he’d copped a knock to the head, after all.

“Yes, clover. The tiny green plant with three green leaves.” Evander rolled his eyes before returning to meet mine with a wink. “And if you’re really lucky, it comes with four.”

Beckett jabbed his friend in the side with an errant elbow, stifling anything further he might have said.

“You heard the man,” Ethan mumbled around swollen, torn lips. “Move out.”

We hurried to the other exit and into the hallway, taking full advantage of the fact that Sebastos was well and truly on the other side of the compound by now.

“To the left,” I ordered, pleased when the others obeyed without question. “Out the east exit instead.”

Ethan hobbled over, stealing precious seconds we did not have to lose.

Ignoring his protests, I swung his left arm around my shoulders, shooting one last look of gratitude at the pair left behind. And all but dragging Ethan out as I did Beckett in the first part of the assessment, we crossed the threshold to be greeted by two identically furious expressions—one of which was pointing a Glock right at my face.

I was starting to get tired of being on that end of a gun.

“Keyword, Sinclair?” Pearce rumbled.

Glaring, I growled, “Clover.”

His brows dropped further, his gaze holding me more hostage than Sebastos had done. Heartbeats passed beneath his stare. His eyes flitted across my body, narrowing on the line across my neck as though the blood personally offended him. Eventually, he jerked his head in assent.

“Pass. Red Team wins.”

Commander Varco—the possessor of the second furious glare and sleek black gun—bared his teeth in a wordless snarl. Then he filled his snarl with linguistics as his finger twitched on the trigger.

“They did not exit out the correct side of the compound.”

My stomach dropped.

“There is no correct side,” Pearce argued. “The instructions I gave both teams at the start of the day indicated that they need only exit with the correct keyword. Not the sham of a keyword that Blue Team provided.”

Varco’s empty fist clenched audibly, his skin creaking in unfettered rage. And then he pulled the trigger.

Click.

His face twisted into that same devilish smirk his son possessed—egged on by my obvious fear, confusion, then finally, understanding.

Commander Varco’s gun was loaded with a faulty bullet—though whether he knew that when he pulled the trigger was up for debate.

“Very well, then,” he purred. “Good work, Red Team. Enjoy your respite, because assignments will be upon you before you know it.”

The last words he directed at me. His familiar-yet-unfamiliar bullshark gaze all but skewered me, casting an unrelenting dread over Graduation Day. Whatever assignment I was given, however, was surely better than staying locked inside these walls⁠—

And would give me access to the weaponry I’d need to end his son for good.

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