The roar of the motorcycles died down to a rhythmic, predatory thrum, idling like beasts waiting for the signal to strike. The smoke from the thermobaric explosion hung in the air like a thick, grey shroud, illuminated by the flickering orange tongues of a dying fire.
In the center of the wreckage, the world had ground to a terrifying, static halt.
Kaelen Thorne stood at the edge of the breach, his back to the rain-slicked night. He held Jolene against his chest, his left arm wrapped around her waist with the casual strength of a man who owned everything he touched. In his right hand, he held a sleek, serrated combat knife, the tip of the blade pressed firmly into the pulse point of her throat. A single, thin line of crimson began to trace its way down her neck, crossing the path of the
