Up on the rampart, the squad leader beside Muriel pocketed a phone and leaned in close to whisper something in her ear. Far too close.
Closer than any professional distance would allow. I filed that away.
The next second, Muriel wrenched the dagger from his abdomen in one clean motion.
Then drove it in again. Hard.
She didn't stop there.
The blade twisted. The wet, grinding crack of something breaking made every hair on every neck stand on end.
Where the blade carved, flesh split open in a burst.
The bait's body lurched downward.
The stench of blood flooded the air again, so thick it was nearly enough to make a person retch.
His lips were bitten through, his mouth full of blood. He looked at me with raw, broken grief and shook his head—barely, almost imperceptibly.
He didn't want me to go out there.
"Give him an adrenaline shot. Don't let him die."
Darkness crept in.
The slaughter hadn't produced the results she'd wanted. Muriel's face was tight with fury.
I pressed my hand over my nose and mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.
I went back to the video call from earlier.
I'd screen-recorded it.
I studied every frame.
The fingers visible on the other end were thicker, longer than my brother's.