Danica's grip on the gun was so tight her palm was beginning to sweat. Every muscle was taut with aggravation as she marched on, switching directions whenever she damn well felt like it until she wasn't sure which one she'd come from. Which was only a problem if she was a fucking pussy or scared of the dark, neither description fitting Danica at all well.

Abruptly, she stopped, back snapping rigid and head swinging over her shoulder to look behind her. Call it a sixth sense, or call it a survival skill that had been well honed over the past five hundred years, but now she was sure something was onto her. She needn't bother cocking the gun since it had been set and primed ever since she'd left the Compound.