Seriously?”

“Al …”

“I’m not budging on this.”

“Then we have a problem,” said Finn.

“No, Finn. You have a problem,” his girl said. “There are some things I can’t do. Standing back while you’re in danger is one of those things.”

Finn’s nostrils flared. “I’m trained to handle dangerous situations. You are not.”

“I don’t care.”

“Al …”

“No, Finn. I love you, but no.”

The kid gave a good impression of a man who’d had the fight sucker punched right out of him. He stopped and stared. “You love me?”

“Yes. I love you,” she said.

Finn stared at her, face rigid and hands balled tight. “Shit.”

“Is that real y so bad?” she asked.

The kid grabbed her and held on tight. And his girl fitted herself against Finn, her face in his neck, arms wrapped around him like she couldn’t let go.

Inside Dan’s ribcage something hurt, just like it had earlier today when he thought he’d lost her. No amount of rubbing the heel of his hand at it helped.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Ali stood belowground in a hardware store basement a half-hour north of Blackstone. Her itchy scalp and damp hair lay beneath her helmet-and-flashlight combo. The confining, dark, hot and dusty space reminded her of old times, only this time she was under a building instead of above a house.

She and her supply buddy, Andy the goth, sorted stock. Others did the same above, clearing the shop floor. Boxes of rope and nails, flashlights and batteries sat in nice piles. Al of the useable items were moved beside the stairs, where Andy then hauled them up to the trucks.

Dan was somewhere aboveground helping load, it being his day to babysit from afar. Keeping her men at home was no more feasible than their hopes to ground her were. No one was completely happy. The last few days had been full of terse words and tense silences.

Eventually, something was going to have to give. Sweat covered her, sticking her t-shirt to her back. Hours must have passed because her muscles ached and her throat was bone dry. She squeezed by the stacks of boxes, searching for her water bottle.

“Andy?” He had mentioned getting a drink and disappeared a while back. She wore no watch. Had no clue what time it was or how long they had worked. “Andy, you there?”

And it was quiet, too quiet.

No reply came to her call, the echo of her own voice and her breathing the only sounds. Labored and loud. Shit.

She couldn’t say when the dozen sets of feet thudding overhead had petered out, but she knew she was alone. The building sat silent.

They had left her behind. How? No way in hell would Dan leave her, and yet the quiet was complete.

Her water bottle sat on a box containing snail bait, right beside where her gun should have been. Without a weapon, she’d be dead.

Panic bent her double and her lungs flattened like a hand held her down.

“Stop it,” she snarled, wincing when it echoed back. Quiet. She should be quiet. The sun couldn’t have set yet, impossible. Where was a f**king watch when she needed one? “Calm down,” she whispered. “Think.”

All comfort bled out of the space and the dark pressed in claustrophobical y. She needed to get upstairs. She forced slow steps, made her way over and around the boxes. Tiptoed up the stairs and through the door with its broken lock. She flicked off her light, set her helmet aside, delaying.

What was the point? Either way, she needed to know.

Ali stepped out onto the shop floor. It was empty. Nothing moved. Things were scattered here and there, articles deemed unimportant. The afternoon sun shone through dusty plate-glass windows with splendid shades of copper and red. It lit up the dust motes floating about.

Her heart fisted as a meltdown commenced, which helped nothing.

Something nudging the side of her boot snagged her attention. It was the weight of the holster shifting on her leg. Finn had buckled the ankle holster onto her himself this morning before heading for the station, making her love him that much more.

She was so f**king scared it was hard to think straight. Trembling fingers fumbled for the catch, pul ed the weapon free and flicked the safety off.

The hardware was wide open, front doors busted, the back the same. Things were stirring out on the street. Shadows moving. The moaning might have been her muddled mind, but it was doubtful.

The sun ducked behind the line of buildings across the way. Above her was a foam ceiling. It wouldn’t hold her.

Out on the street there came a low, drawn-out groan. Her muscles trembled.

Move.

She bolted for the back door, keeping low, trying not to make a target of herself. The building behind this one was three-stories high, blocking out the afternoon sun and casting her in shadow. Still a better bet than the open space of the street front.

There was an overgrown patch of grass running alongside a fence, a docking bay with a van parked in it. The windows had been blown out and a long-dead body sat in the driver’s seat, rotted arm hanging down, skin like leather.

A forklift was parked alongside the back of the building, a pal et stacked with bags of potting mix weighing down the front. In lieu of a ladder, it looked good. It was also the only option.

More moaning.

“Go. Go. Go. Go.” Ali chanted under her breath, navigating the climb from inside the forklift’s cab onto its front load. The gun in her hand slowed her down.

Something grabbed her. She almost screamed. The noise stuck in her throat, wanting out.