DEREK
The bastard was fast.
We chased him through the remains of the old rail yard—broken tracks twisted like bones, rusted metal screeching underfoot as we leapt from one abandoned car to the next. He vaulted down from the top of a boxcar and hit the ground running, silver blade glinting in one hand.
“He’s cutting east!” Brock shouted behind me.
I didn’t answer. I shifted just enough to send a jolt of speed through my limbs, then barreled forward. The rogue ducked between two half-crushed freight cars, but I was on him before he could pivot. My shoulder slammed into his ribs, driving him into the gravel with a satisfying crack.
He howled and twisted, wild with adrenaline and the stink of fear. Teeth bared. Eyes bloodshot.
I grabbed his wrist mid-swing and slammed it down. The blade
