My hands rose slowly, fingers loosening their grip on the rifle until it slipped free. I let my chin tilt upward, exposing my throat to the stale air.
Of course this would happen.
Of course.
To my periphery, Terri was being patted down—rough, impersonal hands dragging over her arms and waist while she sniffled quietly, trying not to cry. Boots thudded across concrete, the sound echoing off bare walls, multiplying until it felt like the room itself was marching.
The air smelled wrong. Old dust. Oil. Sweat that had soaked into concrete and never left.
Someone reached me.
Hands slid over my hips, my ribs, my chest—too slow, too deliberate—then lower.
My jaw tightened.
Seriously?
Like I'd hide something there.
"Wait a damn second…"
The voice came from behind me, far from the person who had been patting me down.
Female.
My shoulders stiffened.
"…Is that—? No way."
She laughed softly under her breath. Disbelieving. Almost delighted.
Then, louder:
"You."
