Omen Operation by Taylor Brooke Page A

strained to keep focused and controlled.
    Three closed in on Porter, only a few feet away. The nearest to him was the largest. When it reached out, he raised the gun to fire, shirt lifting to expose a gleam of metal shoved in the back of his jeans.
    She saw it happen before she moved. Every particular play. Every intricate detail. It happened exactly how she predicted, exactly how she wanted, and all she had to do was concentrate.
    As he pulled the trigger she slid on her knees behind him. Her fingertips latched around the sleek silver gun. She tugged it out of his jeans and slammed it into the jaw of a slender Surro to their left. It crushed the creature’s jaw and left its mouth hanging open. Teeth dropped from its gums, rotted and sallow, while empty eyes stared out at them before it fell to the ground. Brooklyn swooped in front of him and aimed the gun over his shoulder, firing a bullet between the eyes of the third Surro that had been running toward them from behind the dense brush.
    Porter’s breathing was shallow, and he clutched on to her waist. “God, you’re fast,” he said, voice grave and low.
    “Go back to the camp,” Brooklyn said as she tore his shirt and revealed the wound on his shoulder. A deep gash, caked in drying blood and dirt. His shoulder had been filleted open, and unlike the rest of them, Porter didn’t possess any radical healing powers. How he hadn’t already passed out from blood loss was beyond her.
    “I rubbed some dirt on it. I’m fine.” Porter’s voice wobbled.
    “What happened to you?”
    “A Surro got a hold of one of Amber’s knives.” He winced when she tugged on him. “I said I’m fine. Go help them!”
    “I can’t just…leave you, you idiot. You’ll die.” She grabbed his hand and kept it snug on her hip, demanding that he hold on to her.
    He leaned against her, and she backed up, forcing him to take heavy steps backward as well.
    “Well, I guess letting me die would leave you without the opportunity to kill me yourself,” he said, almost laughing.
    “Exactly.”
    Brooklyn focused on the orchestra of sounds. On each branch that was broken. Every yelp and shout. The cluster of voices melted together and made it nearly impossible to find her friends.
    Her eyes finally came across Rayce with a Surro climbing up over his shoulder. He fisted his fingers in the back of the white cloth shirt it was wearing and smashed it carelessly into a tree.
    Julian was with Dawson. They were back to back, shouting at one another about what they were supposed to do while another group of Surros descended from around a wall of pale green bushes.
    Dawson’s movements were quick and precise. He knew exactly where to put his hands, how high to kick, when to move just an inch or pivot a certain way to avoid unnecessary contact with the enemy. He was textbook. A prime example of what they’d learned in the camp.
    Julian was good at deflection. He could use anyone’s own strength against them and make it look like an art form. His body twirled around, and he ducked down underneath a Surro, snatching its arm and twisting it painfully until it snapped. Brooklyn almost flinched watching.
    “Where is she?” Brooklyn whimpered, fingers dancing nervously against her palm.
    Porter hissed loudly, “Brooklyn, on your left!” He tried to lift the gun, but the Surro was on top of them before he could even get his arm up.
    Porter was knocked to the ground. Brooklyn’s lungs jumped into her throat. Pale fingertips latched around her jaw, and jagged yellow nails stung when they dug into her cheeks. She squirmed and thrashed while its dark eyes stared at her, a face full of black veins and busted capillaries. Its breath was putrid, and she almost gagged when it leaned closer and snapped its teeth at her face. “Got the girl,” it chirped horribly. “Got her, got her, got—”
    There was a glint of silver and Brooklyn flinched as the side of her face was sprayed with thick, black liquid. The