Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 71 - Chapitre 80

"Knock, knock," Kyros says.He raises his cane. It’s a signal.The Reapers behind him surge forward, pouring over the burning barricade of bodies in the doorway. They don't shoot. They charge with knives and chains, swarming the room like black locusts."Fall back!" Drakon roars, grabbing my arm. "To the bar!"We retreat. We scramble over the overturned pews, firing as we go. Drakon’s shotgun booms—once, twice—clearing a path through the smoke. I fire the Glock blindly, just trying to keep their heads down.The Chapel is lost. The sanctuary is a slaughterhouse.We crash through the swinging doors into the main bar area. It’s darker here, lit only by the flames licking at the Chapel entrance behind us."Zara!" I scream.She’s right behind me, limping, firing a pistol with one hand.A Reaper lunges from the shadows of the pool table. He tackles her.They hit the floor. The Reaper raises a serrated hunting knife."No!" Zara shrieks, kicking at him.I spin around. I aim.But I can't shoot

The air outside the tunnel smells of river mud and decaying leaves.I claw my way up the muddy bank, my boots slipping on the slick clay. Drakon is right behind me, his hand on my lower back, pushing me upward. We scramble over the lip of the ravine and collapse onto the forest floor.I roll onto my back, gasping for air. The sky above the tree line is stained orange—the glow of the burning clubhouse reflecting off the low clouds."Clear," a voice whispers from the shadows.Leon steps out from behind a massive oak. He’s covered in soot, his left arm wrapped in a bloody rag, but he’s holding his rifle steady. Behind him, five other brothers emerge—Riker, Markos, and three loyalists I recognize from the bar fight.They look like ghosts. battered. broken.And they have a prisoner.Andreas is kneeling in the dirt, his hands zip-tied behind his back. A strip of duct tape covers his mouth. His face is swollen, one eye shut, but he’s watching us with a gleam of manic triumph."You made it,"

The ranch house smells of cedar and old dust.It sits on a ridge overlooking the valley, miles from the nearest paved road. Old Man Petros built it like a fortress—heavy timber walls, shutters reinforced with steel, a perimeter fence topped with razor wire.It’s safe.But inside the master bedroom, the air is thick enough to choke on.Drakon paces the floor. He’s been moving since we arrived, checking the locks, checking the windows, checking the load in his gun. He’s vibrating with a restless, dark energy that the drive didn't burn off.I sit on the edge of the massive four-poster bed. The quilt is handmade, patchwork. It feels too domestic for the blood on our clothes."Drakon," I say softly. "Sit down. You're bleeding through your bandage."He ignores me. He stops at the foot of the bed. He looks at me.His eyes are black pits. There is no softness in them tonight. No apology. The doubt Andreas planted—the image of me with Nikos in a motel room—is still a splinter in his mind, fest

"Go!" Drakon shoves me toward the back of the living room.Outside, the bullhorn blares again. "WE ARE BREACHING IN THREE! TWO!"Glass shatters in the kitchen. A flashbang grenade explodes with a deafening BANG, filling the front of the house with blinding white light and smoke.I don't look back. I scramble behind the heavy stone fireplace. Drakon kicks the rug aside, revealing a trapdoor set flush into the floorboards. It’s not the panic room entrance—that’s a decoy in the pantry. This is the escape hatch. Old Man Petros was paranoid, and right now, his paranoia is the only thing keeping us out of federal custody.Drakon yanks the handle. The door groans open, revealing a black, earth-smelling throat."Down," he orders, the floor shaking under our feet as the front door is rammed in.I lower myself into the hole. My boots find the rough-hewn ladder.Drakon drops in right above me. He pulls the trapdoor shut. darkness swallows us instantly, thick and suffocating."Move," he whispers.

The warehouse settles into a restless quiet.Around the dying fire in the trash can, the brothers sleep in shifts. Leon is on watch at the north door, a silhouette against the gray rain slashing the windows. Markos is curled up on a pile of moving blankets, his rifle clutched to his chest like a teddy bear.Drakon and I are hidden in the shadows of a shipping container maze at the far end of the floor. We’ve built a nest from tarps and old cushions scavenged from a breakroom.It’s cold. The dampness of the river seeps through the metal walls. But here, in this small, enclosed space, the air is warm.Drakon kneels beside me. He’s stripped off his tactical vest, his boots, his shirt. His chest is a landscape of scars and tattoos, rising and falling with a steady rhythm that calms my own racing heart.In his hand, he holds a small glass bottle. Olive oil. We found a case of it in one of the crates—part of a shipment that never made it to a restaurant."Lie back," he whispers.I lie back