He answers before the second ring. “What’s your status?”
“Alive. Colton’s hit. We need you.”
“Jesus. Where?”
“Admin.” I glance at Dahlia; she hasn’t moved, but her stare drills into the back of my skull. “He’s bleeding out. Get your ass here with Rhett. Now.”
A pause, then background noise filters in. Gunfire. Shouting. Something that might be a scream. Julian hisses a breath, then: “We’re en route. The field’s gone to shit, half the Board is dead, the Kings and Castillos are running a fucking civil war.”
“Don’t care. Get here. Bring anything that’ll patch a hole.”
“We’ll grab Rhett’s kit on the way.” Julian hangs up before I can say more. Classic.
I drop the phone, then turn to Colton. The jacket he’s using is already soaked through. I drop to my knees, rip the fabric away, and get a look at the wound. Bullet went through, neat hole front and back, but it’s ugly, and the meat around it is ragged.
“Look at me,” I say.
Colton opens one eye, then grins, teeth coated in pink. “You finally get a girlfriend, and this is how it ends?”
“Shut up.” I rip a length of t-shirt, twist it tight, and use it to press into the wound. He grunts, then bites down on the edge of his sleeve.
Dahlia pushes off from the wall, slides across the floor like a ghost. She crouches next to us, palms splayed on her knees, and stares at the wound. “What do you need?”
Her voice is steady, but her hands shake. I ignore the tremor.
“Need something to pack the hole, then tape. Anything sticky.” I flick my eyes around the office—file folders, tape, a stapler, pens. I start ripping drawers open.
She tears open a drawer, pulls out a box of gauze pads. The kind that comes with a first aid kit but only gets used for paper cuts. She hands it over, and I ram three of them into the wound, then tape a fourth over top with electrical tape. It’s not pretty, but it’ll do.
Colton’s breathing easier. His skin is slick with sweat. I use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe his face.
Dahlia’s voice, quiet: “Is he going to die?”
“No,” I say, even though I don’t believe it.
Colton laughs. “You’re a shit liar, Bam.”
I squeeze his knee, hard enough to hurt. He hisses, then slaps my hand away. “You still got a job to do,” he mumbles. “Don’t let the princess get iced.”
Dahlia tenses, but her chin doesn’t drop. “I’m not a princess.”
He smiles, faint. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Footsteps in the hall, heavy. I freeze. Dahlia’s breath catches.
I creep to the door, grip the edge, and peer through the glass. Nothing. The footsteps fade, then return, closer this time. There’s a shuffle, then a low, guttural curse. Not English.
“Castillo,” I mouth to Dahlia. She nods, eyes wide.
I ease back, grab the broken leg of a chair. Not much, but I can crack a skull with it. I stay by the door, listening, counting heartbeats. The steps move past, heading deeper into the building.
Dahlia whispers, “They’ll search every room.”
“Yeah.” I look at Colton, then at the barricade. “Help me move the desk. Wedge it against the door.”
She helps, her grip tight and strong. The desk squeals across the tile, then slams into place. The effort leaves us both winded. I glance at her hands—knuckles white, smeared in Colton’s blood, the nails short and uneven.
Colton’s head lolls. “You two make a cute couple,” he slurs.
