It’s a silent kill, but blood splashes out of him all over the steering wheel. I climb over the seat, lean across him to open his door, brace my arms between the dashboard and the headrest, and kick him out with the heel of my boot. It takes some effort, but he folds and flops and tumbles to the ground with a thump.
No one notices because they’re all fighting for their lives now.
Without hesitation, I slide into the driver’s seat and floor it. Other than Maddox, there are four still standing. If I’m lucky, I’ll take them all out in one hit.
My speed picks up quickly, and the engine roars my approach, but no one glances in my direction until I’m mere yards away. Because of the headlights blinding them, Makarov’s men must assume I’m the getaway driver coming for them. None of them move, which was the goal, so thrill surges through me.
But right before I make contact, I hear it. The blast that splits the night, sundering the hope that fueled me only moments ago.
They’re all so stunned that I barrel into three, and Maddox hurls a knife into the gut of the fourth. He staggers and tries to lob one in return, but fails miserably.
I suck in a deep breath. We did it. The truck bounces and judders over the bodies. Just to be sure, I throw it in reverse to drive over them again before I jump out to get Maddox.
He smiles, realizing it’s me as he drinks in the scene. “Badass, baby girl, but I told you to fucking run.”
Those vibrant eyes that have held so many things for me—protection and promises, acceptance and encouragement, lust and love—float to mine with sorrow.
And the world stills to the carnage and the fire and the eerie twilight-drenched trees, demanding I brand this snippet of time into my brain because it will forever change me.
Maddox is clutching his chest.
Panic throttles me, my throat threatening to close. I rush toward him. His hand is soaked in blood by the time I trek the ten steps to reach him. He wobbles, gripping on to me. I’m afraid he’ll pass out, so I corral him to the passenger door and shove him inside.
When I rip open his shirt, there’s so much blood; I can’t understand where it’s coming from. It’s everywhere, pouring out of him. I try to wipe some of it away, and I find some cuts andlacerations and one deeper stab wound, but then I see a darker round spot on his right pec. My gut wrenches.
“Home, Tess.” He croaks that out, his eyes hooded and resigned, ready to succumb to whatever force is yanking him to another place.
“Don’t you fucking do that, Maddox.” I slap his cheek to keep him with me, but mid-scolding, I hear the faint rustling crunch of gravel. Plucking the pistol from my pocket, I turn and shoot a man crawling toward us in the head.
That awakens Maddox. He coughs and splutters through a crimson grin, but he can’t seem to speak, and his eyes are brimming with terror. He wheezes, and the chest wound bubbles.
I call Axel, barely keeping myself together.
“I’m here,” he answers.
“He’s been stabbed and shot. There’s so much blood. I think I’m—”
“What are the injuries?” he cuts me off, stoic as always.
I briefly mention that he has some lacerations, but I concentrate on the bullet that is likely in his lungs.
“Is the wound hissing or gurgling? Bubbling?” another voice asks.
“There are bubbles,” I confirm, tears sliding down my cheeks. “And a wheezing sound.”
“Okay. This is Wells. You’re doing great, Tessa, but we need to patch it. Do you have tape? Your ID or a credit card?”
“I have my license. No tape. Wait.” I stop, remembering the bag in the back seat. I swing open the back door, rummaging through the contents, not finding anything useful until … “Duct tape.”
“That’ll do,” he says. “Wipe the wound off as best you can. Then apply some pressure, place your license over top of it, and tape only three sides. Say everything out loud as you’re doing it.”
They wait while I comply, dumping the contents of my purse—makeup, phone, wallet—onto the seat beside Maddox and extracting my license.
“I got my ID.” I ruck up my dress and use the inside of my skirt to dab some of the blood. “I’m wiping off the wound and applying pressure.”
“Good, Tess,” Axel says. “You’re doing so good.”
Placing my license over the bubbling hole, I rip off three small pieces of tape. “Does it matter which side I don’t tape?”
