Jax’s mind raced as his toe brushed the rough surface of the stone.

The gunman was close—less than two meters away.

The stench of stale tobacco drifted off the man, mixing with the sharp tang of unwashed sweat. He crouched in the shadow of the boulder, his Rifle stock pressed against his shoulder, barrel scanning the darkness.

Jax held his breath until his lungs burned. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, the thudding pulse deafening in his own ears.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

He needed leverage. Slowly, agonizingly, he inched his foot closer to the rock.

One centimeter. Two.

He gauged its dimensions by touch. Roughly twenty centimeters wide. The surface was pitted and coarse—weathered sandstone. Heavy enough to do damage.

He hooked his toes underneath it. He had to be sure it wasn’t buried deep in the sand. If he kicked and it didn’t budge, he was dead.

He applied the slightest pressure.

Scritch.

The sound of grit grinding against stone seemed to echo like a gunshot in the silence.

Jax froze.

“Yo! Anyone home in Sector 33?”

The shout came from the valley entrance—Old Four, playing the bait.

Silence answered him.

Jax felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his spine. Barney. The giant was still up there, sleeping like a log. If they flanked him while he was dreaming…

He had to act. But the gunman in front of him was a wall of pressure.

Jax studied the man’s silhouette. Even in the dim light, the guy looked dangerous. His arms were corded with muscle, veins popping under the skin like worms. In the Apocalypse, where most people were starving skeletons, muscle meant calories. And calories meant this guy was a predator. He ate well, which meant he killed often.

Below the platform, the other raiders grew restless. They muttered among themselves, impatience winning over caution.

One of the shadows broke away, heading for the cliff wall on the far side. The flanker.

Shit.

The clock just ran out. If that guy reached the top, Barney was dead meat.

Jax gritted his teeth. He dug his toes under the stone and heaved.

He expected resistance. He expected to lift it silently.

Instead, the rock dislodged with a hollow thud and rolled across the loose gravel.

Clatter-clack.

To Jax’s heightened senses, it sounded like a landslide.

“Damn it!” Jax swore internally, abandoning stealth. He clenched his fist, muscles coiling.

The gunman spun around. His reaction was professional, instant. But Jax was already moving.

As the man turned, Jax drove his fist forward with everything he had.

SPLAT.

His knuckles connected squarely with the man’s eye socket. There was a sickening wet pop as the eye ruptured, fluid spraying against Jax’s hand.

The gunman grunted, stumbling back. But he was tough. He didn’t drop. He used the momentum of the blow to roll backward, creating distance, his finger already finding the trigger of his Rifle.

Jax didn’t give him the second he needed.

As the man rolled, bringing the muzzle up, Jax snatched the heavy stone from the sand.

“Die!”

Jax hurled the rock.

It was a clumsy, desperate throw, but at point-blank range, it couldn’t miss.

CRACK.

The stone smashed into the man’s forehead. The impact was brutal. The gunman’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling up. The Rifle slipped from his grip as he collapsed onto his back, stunned.

Jax was on him instantly.

He tackled the dazed man, straddling his chest. His hands clamped around the raider’s throat, thumbs digging into the windpipe.

The man thrashed. His legs kicked wildly, boots scraping the sand, trying to buck Jax off. His hands clawed at Jax’s wrists, but the strength was fading fast.

Jax didn’t let go. He squeezed, his face a mask of grim determination.

CRUNCH.

The hyoid bone snapped. The man’s struggles turned into frantic, jerky spasms. He gasped for air that couldn’t pass the crushed ruin of his throat.

Jax held on. One minute. Two minutes.

The thrashing slowed. Then stopped. The man’s body went limp, becoming heavy and still.

Jax didn’t move. In the wasteland, you made sure.

He waited until warm, sticky blood began to drip onto his hands—flowing from the man’s nose and mouth where the internal hemorrhage had burst through.

Only then did Jax release his grip. He wiped his hands on the dead man’s shirt and snatched up the Rifle.

He checked the action. Loaded.

Jax stayed low, sprinting toward the base of the platform.

The other raiders hadn’t realized their leader was dead. Old Four was still shouting, trying to lure out the “idiot” and the “weakling.”

But the flanker—Old Two—had gotten distracted.

Near the base of the cliff, Old Two had stumbled upon the graveyard of the Sandworms.

“Holy shit…” Old Two whispered, his eyes widening. He waved frantically at the others. “Hey! Get over here!”

The other two raiders crept over.

“What is it, Two?”

“Look at this!” Old Two kicked a massive carcass. “Fresh kills. Dozens of them. And look—the Cores haven’t been harvested!”

Greed instantly replaced caution.

“Jackpot,” one of them hissed. “Screw the people. We can grab these and run. There’s enough here to feed us for a month!”

“Wait,” Old Two said, glancing at Old Four. “Let Four keep yelling. He can be the distraction while we bag the loot.”

“But the Boss said—”

“The Boss isn’t here, is he? I can handle two starving losers myself. Start bagging!”

Old Four, still standing near the entrance, sighed. He watched his team abandon him for the loot.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “No discipline.”

He looked up at the fortress again, squinting. The moonlight caught the edge of the structure on the platform.

“Wait a second…” Old Four frowned. “That doesn’t look like a rock pile.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “The height… the arrow slits… Is that a Sentry Tower?”

The realization hit him like a physical blow. The dead worms. The fortified position.

“That’s why they died,” he whispered, a greedy grin spreading across his face. “If we take this place…”

He opened his mouth to shout to the others.

Then, the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

A chill, pure and primal, shot down his spine. His Sixth Sense screamed at him.

Turn around.

Old Four spun, whipping out a jagged dagger in a desperate slash.

Cold metal pressed against his forehead.

“Move and I paint the sand with your brains,” a voice said. Cold. Flat.

Old Four froze. His eyes crossed, focusing on the black muzzle of the Rifle inches from his face.

Jax stood there, silent as a phantom, his finger resting on the trigger.

“B-brother!” Old Four stammered, raising his hands, the dagger clattering to the ground. “Don’t shoot! We’re just passing through! We just… we just wanted some water!”

Jax’s lips curled into a mirthless smile.

“Begging for water with a knife in your hand?” Jax asked softly. “You must be thirsty.”