Killshot (Icarus Series Book 1) by Aria Michaels

“Um, Okay?” I said, confused. “Why do I need a box of feminine products? It’s not my—”
                  “Stop,” Micah said, his face turning red. “Let me just stop you right there. You might want to take a closer look, just be careful.”
                  I pushed the top layer of pads around carefully, unsure of what I would find. Nestled beneath a couple inches of cotton and plastic, was a knife.
                  Correction— this was not just a knife, it was the knife; an MX8 Tactical Hunting and Assault Blade. My dad had one just like it and I had been drooling over it and begging for one of my own since I was Beans’ age. This one was a little brash for my taste. The handle was matte black with red skulls and flames scattered all over it, but aside from tacky design, it looked to be in perfect condition. I couldn’t wait to hold it.
                  I reached in, carefully palming the weapon as I slowly released the eight-inch folding blade from its track. The knife was weighted perfectly, balanced just right, and felt as if it had been molded to fit my palm. The polished black stainless steel blade was serrated at the base and razor smooth to the point. Its textured handle housed a belt clip, as well as the flip point release. At the end of the handle, was a carbide breaker point and a concave belt cutter (perfect for escaping a car trapped under water, my dad had explained).
                  Knives like this were originally designed for the U.S. Military, but eventually they became popular with survivalists and big game hunters. In other words, this knife was a hard-core, fight to the death, ultimate survival kind of weapon. I could think of no logical reason for it to be stashed in a high school gym locker. I stared down at it, in awe.
                  “We thought, maybe, you should hold on to that,” Riley said, her hand on my shoulder. “I remember one time you told me that you used to do all that camping and outdoorsy stuff with your, umm. Whatever, I just thought it would be safest with you, you know?”
                  “Yeah,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the knife.
                  “I didn't want anyone to freak out about there being weapons, so we didn't say anything to the twins. Those two should pretty much never be allowed around sharp objects.” She laughed, nervously.
                  “No doubt,” I snorted, still fixated on the knife as if it were the ghost of my father. “Thanks, Ry. I will hold onto this, you know, for safe keeping.”
                  I pressed the clip release in the housing slot, folded the knife in on itself, and slid it into my pocket. It felt heavy, but not uncomfortable against my hip. Somehow, this knife belonged there.
                  I cleared the lump from my throat and scooped the medicine bottles from the bench into the tampon box. The girl’s locker room was now almost unbearably hot and it was becoming difficult to breath. I was not sure how much longer we would be able to stand being above ground.

 
     
    Chapter 9
     
    Uncommon Commonality
                   
                   
                   
                   
                   With some assistance from a metal folding chair, Zack was able to smash open the plexiglass fronts of the vending machines. The bag was now crammed full of bottles of soda, small jugs of fruit juice, bottled water, and a few containers of chocolate drink. Zack trudged past me, lugging the big mesh sack over his shoulder like Santa Claus.
                  Falisha and Tara confiscated a recycling bin from the hallway and used it to haul back the snacks they had pilfered. The blue plastic bin was stacked high with pop tarts, potato chips, and other salty snacks. They carried the bin between them and entered at