We race toward the back of the warehouse—limping, stumbling, bruised, but running.
Gunshots crack outside.
Men shout.
Metal crashes.
The entire world fractures into sound and fear.
We reach the ladder.
Tiffany gestures upward. “Go!”
I climb, heart hammering against my ribs, every rung slick with rust and sweat. Tiffany follows close. The ceiling hatch is barely locked—we shove it open and crawl out onto a narrow steel beam just under the roof.
From up here, through rusted vents, I can see shadows rushing outside.
I try to make them all out from the brief introductions I can remember. Country Boy. Raff. Grinder. Miles.
And Stud.
Tony moves like a storm, dark eyes murderous, jaw clenched so tight a vein in his neck bulges. His hands grip a gun. His voice roars names, orders, threats that shake the ground.
I choke on a sob.
Tiffany grips my arm. “He’ll get to us. We just need to go down the far side and hunker down.”
A gunshot explodes behind us.
We freeze.
Eric stands at the top of the ladder we just climbed, breathing hard, shirt stained with sweat and dust. The mad, furious smile on his face chills my bones.
“Running again, Holley?” he snarls. “You never learn.”
He steps onto the beam.
Tiffany steps in front of me.
“No,” she growls. “You don’t touch her again.”
Eric raises the gun.
My heart stops.
Time fractures and a deafening sound erupts below.
A bullet slams into the beam inches from Eric’s foot, sending sparks flying.
We all whip our heads toward the source.
Tony.
Gun raised.
Eyes locked.
Chest heaving.
