He stumbles back, blood gushing from his nose.
I shoot him.
Once.
Twice.
He drops.
But the damage is done.
I look down.
The knife is still in my side, buried to the hilt.
Blood—my blood—spreading across my shirt like a dark stain.
Fuck.
The van's engine roars to life.
No.
I lurch toward it, but my legs aren't working right.
Everything's going fuzzy at the edges.
The van pulls away, tires squealing.
The bus follows.
The kids.
They're taking the kids.
"Gunnar!" Someone's yelling my name. "Gunnar, get down!"
More gunfire.
I'm on my knees now.
When did that happen?
Hands grab me—Hakon, I think—dragging me behind cover.
"Fuck, he's hit! Gunnar's hit!"
"How bad?" Fenrir's voice, somewhere close.
"Bad. Knife in the side. Lot of blood."
Pain.
So much pain.
"The kids—" I try to say.
"They're gone. We have to go. Now."
