Caleb was lying on the landing, the gun smoking in his hand. He was pale, soaked in blood, but he was alive.
The Reapers stood in shocked silence. They looked at their dead leader. They looked at the woman on the ground. They looked at the Prophet on the stairs.
Then, a siren wailed in the distance. Police sirens. Getting closer.
Panic erupted. The formation broke. Men scattered, running for the side exits, abandoning their weapons, abandoning their cause.
The warehouse emptied in seconds.
Silence returned, broken only by the distant wail of the sirens and the drip of Silas’s blood onto the concrete.
Elena tried to stand, but her side was on fire. She slumped back against the crates.
Caleb began to drag himself down the stairs. He used his arms, his elbows, his chin, pulling himself
