FOR THE GROWNUPS
THINK LIKE THEM.
BE READY TO RUN.
FIGHT LIKE HELL.
In a few hours we’ll be prey in a strange city.
If I hadn’t answered my dad’s call, none of this would’ve happened. But I did, and it did. And now there’s a gorgeous bastard unconscious at my feet. I’m tempted to wipe away the blackening clot at his temple just so I can watch his blood run again.
But that’d be rage. Prey can’t afford rage. It leaves space for nothing else.
My half-brother, Spencer, is sitting back there, clueless, strategizing with his terrier (no joke) on how to navigate his mystical fantasyland. That kid should be home, blowing out twelve certified organic birthday candles, then off to his therapist.
I’m told that taking out unsuspecting men is nothing to cheer. That I’ve been lucky so far. Right. “Lucky.” Gosh! Why didn’t I hit Vegas before my good fortune ran out?
But it’s over now. The next batch . . . these mere porters with guns and shackles . . . these cogs in the slave-making machine . . . they’re waiting for us—their disobedient property.