There were a few nervous laughs around the room.

Love Lost held out a hand.

“You can shoot?”

“Better than you.” Love Lost’s voice was soft, raw and ragged, her expression deadpan.

“Ha!” Marcial laughed.

“You’re arming the villain?” Bastian asked.

“I go by my instincts in situations like this. I don’t trust Valentin or Cox when they’re this fucked up inside, most of the rest of you have guns, and something tells me she—”

She tossed the handgun to Love Lost. Then she tossed the magazine.

“—spent time at the range.”

“More than you,” Love Lost said.

“Fuck you,” Marcial said. “I’ve got two kids who I left sitting with their daddy in a tent at the edge of civilization. I’m going to trust that you’re not going to fuck me on this, okay, Red?”

Love Lost nodded.

“Just gotta get through the door again, right?” Colt asked.

“Yeah,” Rain said.

Marcial aimed her rifle.

Gilpatrick squared his stance. Stand and shoot.

Others did much the same.

“Those of you who aren’t armed, focus on escorting the kids,” Gilpatrick called out.

“Including fucking Cox?” Bastian asked.

“Fuck you,” Cox retorted.

“Ten!” Marcial’s voice was commanding.

She was like ice, her aim steady.

Gilpatrick’s wasn’t, but he could control his breathing.

“Nine!”

Steady his aim. He scanned the thing for weak points.

“Eight!”

Joints. Weak spots. Consistent spots that didn’t warp as much as it moved. He chose one of the spots on the shoulder, where red mingled with blue to form a shape that looked like an eye with an ‘s’ shaped pupil. His bullseye.

“Seven!”

The beast stopped. It looked at them with a gleam in its eyes that suggested it knew exactly what was happening. Who they were, what they were doing. Like it could understand them and the countdown.

“Six!”

“Time your shots, you want to be empty the moment Marcial is!” Diaz called out.

“Five!”

Valentin and Cox were still silent, still the odd ones out, expressions cold. They paid more attention to one another than they paid to the rest of the room. Exchanging looks.

Where were they from?

“Four!”

His scrutiny of the pair must have been obvious, because Early commented. One of the rookies, fresh-faced, but serious. He’d seen the kid toted around by Bash, a captain in training. “Weird, aren’t they?”

“Three!”

Gilpatrick looked at Valentin and Cox. “Weird how?”

“Even before, Cox’s nametag—”

“Two!”

“It was faded. Read ‘C-p-x’,” Early said, voice quiet. “Ink or marker—”

“One!”

“—painted over the ‘p’.”

“That’s the kind of thing you mention sooner,” Gilpatrick said.

Marcial opened fire, and as much as the room was vast, with fourteen or fifteen sections, the noise was deafening. They had none of the usual PRT or Patrol ear protection. No hats, nothing that muffled. And the walls did reverberate with the sound, making it echo.