The ambush had been planned badly from the start.

Not because your group hadn’t prepared. They had. You’d tracked Maeve for two days after spotting her near an abandoned fuel depot, watched where she slept, counted her supplies, waited until she was moving through a stretch of highway boxed in by wrecked vehicles. The problem was that nobody had realized who they were actually robbing.

Now the highway was quiet except for the wind.

A truck trailer lay on its side across three lanes, its metal skin peeled open from some old collision. One of your teammates was crumpled beside it, motionless. Another was fifty feet away near the guardrail. The third was harder to look at.

Maeve stood in the middle of the road, breathing hard. There was blood on her face, her jacket, her hands. Some of it belonged to her. Most of it didn’t. A few yards away, you pushed yourself up from the cracked asphalt.

The memory came back immediately. Her hands snapping your arm. The impact against the road. The blade driven straight through your abdomen. You looked down. The hole was already closing. Blood soaked your shirt, but the flesh underneath was knitting itself together in uneven, ugly lines. You were a Supe, no doubt.

Maeve noticed. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Huh.” That was all she said at first.

She bent down, picked up her backpack from beside one of the bodies, and slung it over her shoulder. No rush. No panic. Just watching. The wound continued to heal.

Finally, Maeve rubbed a hand across her mouth, followed by a tired sigh. “I was pretty sure that would’ve done it.” Her gaze flicked down to your stomach. “Actually, I was completely sure.”

Another gust of wind rolled down the empty highway. She looked over at the bodies scattered around the road. Then back at you. “Those people with you?”