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from the tents weaving irregular shapes along the hard-packed ground. Closing his eyes, Nick tilted his chin up and inhaled.
    He could smell her.
    Tonight the edge of his knife would sink into her skin, slicing skillfully through her perfect complexion. It would reveal the beauty of muscle and tendons entwined with fear-engorged veins of dark, crimson blood. She’d plead for her life first, then cry and whimper like a scared bitch. When reality dawned and Blondie faced her own mortality, she’d scream. Loud and long. Its music would wrap around him and lift him to a higher plain of existence. He craved this. He needed this.
    â€œMr. Fowler?”
    Nick snapped open his eyes, releasing himself from the fantasy that had plagued his mind since that fateful moment six months ago when her perfect beauty had invaded his world. “Yeah?”
    â€œWe’re ready.”
    Nick glanced past the large black man and scanned the line of trucks laden with a mix of local militia and NWP oil workers. This was Kill-and-Go, Fowler style. Handpicked for their ruthlessness and bloodlust, these men would massacre the village leaving behind an unmistakable “don’t fuck with oil” message.
    He gave the signal to move out and jumped into the cab of the lead truck. “Remember,” he said, his voice a low growl, “the girl’s mine.”

    Cassidy remained still, only her eyes moving to scan the capsule of her tent.
    A hand pressed against her mouth.
    Panic slammed into her chest, and she inhaled using the fear-induced adrenaline to heave herself off the cot. Her attacker swore and scrambled to regain control.
    Cassidy ducked under his arm and kicked at the back of his knees.
    He outmaneuvered her, pinning her to the ground and lodging his forearm firmly beneath her chin. “Dammit, be still.” All she could see was a pair of brilliant blue eyes peering at her from a camo-painted face.
    She paused, recognizing a familiar Southern cadence in his voice. “Who are you?”
    He shook his head and placed a finger to her lips. “Hush.”
    A gunshot rang, splitting the night air with its resounding echo. Screams filtered through the flaps of her tent. Cassidy’s eyes widened, and she swallowed against a lump in her throat. What the hell was going on? She and her captor remained still for what felt like hours until he nodded and released his hold.
    â€œWho are you?” she asked again.
    He moved toward the front of her tent and peered through the slight gap in the flap. “Hush. I’m the good guy.” His voice was deep and menacing. He certainly didn’t sound like a good guy. Screams filtered through the opening, echoing within the small enclosure.
    She was frightened and feeling out of her element. Inhaling short deep breaths, Cassidy tried to convince herself she was in the midst of a nightmare and would awaken any second.
    Silence. Then more gunshots.
    â€œIt’s the Kill-and-Go squad.”
    Cassidy shook her head. She didn’t want to acknowledge any of this. “You’re wrong. We’re protected.”
    He ripped up the sleeve of his camouflage T-shirt to reveal a tattoo of a jagged black “Z” striking the center of an American flag. “Not anymore.”
    Cassidy squinted at it, trying to decipher the meaning. Could this situation get any more bizarre? Perplexed, she glanced at his face. His features were undistinguishable beneath heavy camo paint, but his gaze was steady and unwavering, making her feel a bit like Alice down the rabbit hole. Her mind tumbled through the significance of his tattoo, but nothing clarified the mystery. “Zorro Squad?” she asked, unimpressed with this display of masculine pride and struggling with the fear that slammed her heart against her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
    His shoulders dropped, and he rolled his eyes at her.
    She shrugged, her fear turning into anger. “I’m not psychic,