"Almost there," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Almost where? I want to scream, but I bite my tongue and follow.
We cross the street quickly, Diesel moving with surprising grace despite Reaper's dead weight in his arms. My heart pounds as we're exposed under the streetlights, feeling like targets painted against the night. But the street remains empty, abandoned, as if the rest of the city has simply evaporated.
Tank leads us toward what looks like another alley mouth when I see them — flashing lights cutting through the darkness, growing brighter as they approach from the far end of the street. Whatever plan Tank had for saving Reaper’s life and getting us out of here is now dead in the water.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Adriana
The flashing lights draw closer and I’m seized with a flurry of emotions that want to tear my heart apart; hope for Reaper, that whoever’s arriving will get him the medical attention that he so desperately needs; fear and anger that saving his life may cost me everything and leave me with only a jail sentence and a nagging, eternal sense of regret and pain. I love him; I’ll be happy that he’s alive; I’ll hate him for what he’s taken from me, and I will never, ever stop hurting.
“God damn it,” I murmur as those lights come closer, still too bright in the darkness to make out anything except the flashing.
Tank gives me a heavy look. “Damn it? Why the fuck would you say that?”
“He’ll live, and I’m glad about that, but this is going to end with me going to jail to save the life of the man who is responsible for my sister’s death.”
“You believe that self-loathing bastard’s story?”
I blink. “Yes?”
“You believe his word — a man who did everything he could to kill himself?”
I blink again, harder. Because what the fuck is this man — Reaper’s own club brother — saying to me? “Shouldn’t I?”
“Reaper didn’t pull Vanessa into the war with Victor Moretti. Vanessa used to work for Moretti — she was one of his strippers — and she ran away to a shelter that Moretti had his claws sunkinto. A monster like him lets nothing he believes is his property, people included, get away from him. Vanessa was a target whether she was with Reaper or not. Reaper blames himself because he got clean, he survived, he beat Moretti, and Vanessa died in his arms while he carried her into the ER, screaming for medical help.”
My eyes land on Reaper while the sirens grow closer. “He’s innocent?”
“Generally? Fuck no. In this? Fuck yes. He holds himself accountable because he had a dream for the two of them, and that dream died in his arms of an overdose forced into her veins by a soulless monster. He might be a fucking idiot who ran away from his brothers on a quest to kill himself, and he might deserve a metric fuckton of an assbeating for that, but in this, he’s innocent.”
The sirens and lights draw closer. I see the shape of an ambulance coalescing in the dark. I could run, I could run away and leave Reaper to be saved — maybe saved — but after everything that happened here today, who knows if I’d ever see him again?
And seeing him again is worth everything.
I resolve to stay. To stay and go with him, to be there when he wakes up, hopefully, even if it means I only get to kiss him one last time and tell him I forgive him before life, the law, the universe, splits us apart for good.
The lights draw closer. They’re almost here. Maybe I can ride in the ambulance with him.
The ambulance comes to a stop right next to our group. The back doors fly open, as does the driver’s side door. Out of the back come two paramedics wheeling a gurney.
Out of the front? A familiar face beaming from ear to ear.
Mayhem.
“Sorry we took so long. Hijacking this thing was a pain in the ass. Can you believe these two paramedics didn’t want to be our hostages? It’s absolutely fucking crazy that I had to pull a gun on these two just to get them to come along and save someone’s life. People these days just have no commitment to their jobs.”
The two paramedics exchange a look that screams, 'What the hell have we gotten ourselves into,' but they move with professional efficiency despite their circumstances. The older one, graying at the temples with steady hands, immediately drops to his knees beside Reaper.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, taking in the blood-soaked mess that is Reaper's torso. "What happened to him?"
"Knife wounds," Tank says grimly. "Multiple stab wounds, torture."
The paramedic nods, his face grim but focused. "Let's get him loaded. Now."
They work quickly, transferring Reaper's unconscious form onto the gurney. I stay close, my hand brushing his arm as they lift him. His skin is cold, too cold, and my stomach lurches.
