THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| xxxiv. EXIT WOUNDS

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CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR;

EXIT WOUNDS.

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JOHN MURPHY HAD A FLAIR FOR DRAMATIC EXITS. After Haven mercifully spared his life, he snatched up the last of the gunpowder, sealed the third-floor hatch, and blasted a gaping hole straight through the dropship's wall to make his getaway. As always, he didn't bother with subtlety. His preference for dramatic, high-impact maneuvers made him as notorious as he was destructive—always leaving behind a trail of smoldering debris for somebody else to stomp out.

For Haven, there was simply no respite—no time to recover from the day's avalanche of traumas. Although she'd rather face death than abandon the sanctuary of Bellamy's soothing embrace—the reality looming ahead of them was inevitable. Life on the ground surged ahead at breakneck speed, with events shifting so rapidly that she felt perpetually off-kilter. Sometimes, it seemed that the relentless emotional whiplash inflicted more punishment than the actual tragedies that caused it.

"All gunners! We got movement outside the south wall!"

Duty called—endlessly, relentlessly.

Amidst the murmur of radio chatter, Haven found herself mechanically descending the dropship's ladder, with Bellamy just a few steps ahead. Once he reached the bottom, he lifted her from the remaining rungs, instinctively entwining her hand in his as soon as her feet touched the floor. Soundlessly, he led them through the blood washed corridor and out into the open air, each step echoing with the ghosts of lingering conflict.

Frigid, sputtering raindrops caressed their skin as the duo stepped into the heart of camp. In another life, the afternoon breeze would have served as a gentle balm to Haven's frayed nerves, but now—the mere concept of relief felt like relic from a distant past, lost to the shadows of time.

Camp itself seemingly remained in ruins, anxiety creeping among the sea of teenagers like an unseen plague, winding its way through the ranks. Half the teenagers openly gaped at Haven and Bellamy; their eyes were magnetically drawn to the glaring red imprint encircling Bellamy's neck, a cruel souvenir from the noose, and the dried blood that streaked Haven's cheeks, marred her clothes, and stained her fingernails. The other half were the remaining gunners, under Miller's command, racing up to the gate's summit to survey the horizon for any sign of the impending threat.

        "Someone's coming! Get ready!"

        "Stay together!"