Time lost all meaning in the cave. There was only the sound of the ocean and the ragged, terrifying sound of Cassian's breathing.
I didn't know if it had been an hour or five. The moon had moved across the sky, and the temperature had dropped. But while I was shivering in my torn dress, Cassian was burning up.
"Elena..." he muttered, his head tossing restlessly on the sand. "Don't... don't go out there."
"I'm here," I whispered, dipping a scrap of silk into the cold seawater and pressing it to his forehead. "I'm right here."
His skin was searing hot. The infection was moving fast, or maybe it was just the body's reaction to the trauma. He gripped my hand, his fingers twitching.
"The drive," he rasped, his eyes squeezing shut in pain. "Destroy it. If I die... you destroy it."
"You aren't dying," I said firmly, though my voice wavered. "You promised me, remember? You don't die easily."
He didn't answer. He slipped back into unconsciousness, his breathing hitching.
I looked at the cave entrance. My heart stopped.
The water was higher.
When we arrived, there was twenty feet of dry sand. Now, there was five. The tide was coming in.
"Oh God," I breathed.
If we stayed here, we would drown. If we went out, the thermal cameras on the helicopter—if it was still circling—might spot us.
But we had no choice.
"Cassian," I shook his shoulder hard. "Cassian, wake up. We have to move."
He groaned, trying to push himself up, but his arms collapsed under him. The blood loss had taken too much.
"Leave me," he wheezed. "Save yourself."
"Shut up," I snapped, grabbing his arm and trying to haul him up. It was like trying to move a boulder. I gritted my teeth, digging my heels into the sand, pulling until my muscles screamed. "I am not leaving you!"
I managed to drag him a foot. Then another.
Splash.
I froze.
It wasn't the sound of a wave. It was the sound of a footstep in water.
I dropped Cassian's arm and scrambled for the gun—the Glock I had used to shoot my father. It was wet, sandy, and heavy.
I aimed it at the cave entrance, my hands shaking.
"Stay back!" I screamed into the darkness. "I'll shoot! I swear to God, I'll shoot!"
A massive shadow detached itself from the rock wall. It blocked out the moonlight.
It waded toward us, silent and terrifying.
I tightened my finger on the trigger. "Stop!"
The figure stopped. It raised two large hands in the air slowly.
Moonlight hit the face.
Bruised. Swollen. One eye shut. But alive.
"Rook?" I choked out.
The giant let out a breath that sounded like a groan of relief. He lowered his hands and rushed toward us, water splashing around his knees.
I dropped the gun and scrambled up, throwing my arms around his wet, tactical vest. I buried my face in his chest, sobbing.
"You're alive," I cried. "I thought you drowned."
Rook didn't hug me back—he was too focused. He gently pushed me aside and knelt beside Cassian.
He checked the pulse. He checked the wound. His face was grim.
'Bad?' I signed, my fingers trembling.
Rook nodded. Bad.
He looked at the rising water, then pointed up. Climb.
He didn't waste time communicating. He bent down, grabbed Cassian's arm, and in one smooth, powerful motion, hoisted the unconscious Underboss over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
Cassian groaned but didn't wake.
Rook looked at me. He jerked his head toward the entrance. Lead the way.
We moved.
We waded out of the cave into the chest-deep water. The helicopter was gone—probably refueling or searching the wrong sector.
We found a goat path cut into the cliffside—steep, treacherous, and slick with sea spray.
The climb was brutal. I slipped twice, skinning my knees, but I kept going. Behind me, Rook was a machine. Despite his own injuries, despite carrying Cassian, he climbed relentlessly, his breath coming in heavy huffs.
We crested the cliff as the first gray light of dawn began to bleed into the sky.
We were in the dense forest now, miles from the cabin.
Rook didn't stop. He carried Cassian for another mile, deep into the treeline, until we found an old logging road.
Only then did he gently lower Cassian onto a bed of pine needles.
Rook collapsed beside him, leaning against a tree, gasping for air. He looked at me and tapped his wrist. Time.
"We need a car," I said, thinking fast. "We need a hospital."
Rook shook his head violently. No hospital. Police.
"Then a vet," I said. "Or a back-alley doctor. Rook, he needs surgery. The bullet is still inside."
Rook closed his eyes for a second, thinking. Then he opened them and pointed north.
'Old contact,' he signed rapidly. 'Safe. But far.'
"How do we get there?"
Rook reached into his wet boot. He pulled out a small, waterproof pouch. Inside was a stack of cash and a set of car keys.
I stared at him. "You had keys in your boot this whole time?"
Rook smirked—a bruised, split-lip smile. He pointed to himself. 'Always prepared.'
"Where is the car?"
He pointed to a camouflage tarp hidden in the bushes fifty yards away.
"You guys really have contingency plans for your contingency plans," I muttered, a hysterical laugh bubbling up.
We stripped the tarp. Underneath was a battered, rusty Ford pickup truck. It wasn't pretty, but it was beautiful to me.
Rook loaded Cassian into the passenger seat, reclining it all the way back. I climbed into the middle. Rook took the wheel.
The engine sputtered, coughed, and roared to life.
As we rattled down the logging road, leaving the ocean and the blood behind us, I looked at Cassian. He was pale as a sheet, sweat beading on his forehead.
I reached out and took his hand. It was limp.
"Hold on, Cassian," I whispered. "Just hold on."
Rook gunned the engine. We drove into the sunrise, battered, broken, but alive.
The war had started. And we had just survived the first battle.