Bridger doesn’t say anything. He’s gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to tear it off, eyes locked on the road as the speedometer climbs.
Neve is in the front seat, her phone to her ear, voice low but urgent. “It’s bad. We’re like two minutes away. He’s out cold.”
I want to ask who she’s talking to. I want to know where we’re going. But I’m too scared to open my mouth again in case I startscreaming and don’t stop. Damian shifts under me with a groan, his head lolling to the side, blood staining the collar of his shirt deeper. I adjust the pressure and feel warm stickiness soaking through another layer.
“Please,” I whisper again. “Please don’t die.”
The SUV jerks as Bridger takes a sharp exit, tires squealing as we fly down a side road, then another, then onto a cracked, narrow path lined with chain-link fences.
No other cars. Just us. My heart hammers harder.
Buildings appear. Long and bricked. It looks like a strip mall full of stores. Bridger pulls around to the back of the last one. A security light flickers above its back door. Another car is already parked back here. A sleek, black Jaguar.
Bridger slams the SUV into park.
Before I can blink, the side door of the brick building opens and a man steps out. Tall. Broad shoulders. Clean cut. Too calm. Too put together for what this night has been. He moves like someone used to pressure. He opens the back door without a word and reaches for Damian.
Bridger meets him at open door and they move in sync, grabbing Damian by the shoulders and legs. They’ve done this before.
Before they lift him all the way out, Damian stirs. He blinks blearily, head rolling forward, eyes unfocused. “I can walk,” he mutters, voice hoarse. He shoves their hands off him, trying to stand, and instantly collapses. His knees buckle and he hits the pavement with a sickening thud.
I immediately start to cry.
Neve reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”
Bridger and the other man drop down beside him, grabbing his arms, calling his name, checking his pulse. And all I can do is sit frozen in the backseat, hands still coated in his blood, heart hammering in my chest.
Bridger’s voice barks through the open door. “Stay here!”
I freeze for a second, staring after him as he and the mystery man carry Damian’s limp body inside the brick building.
Neve turns toward me, then glances back at the SUV—toward the rear, toward the trunk, where Zero’s body lies, crumpled and unmoving.
“Yeah, no. I’m not staying in a car with a dead guy. Hell no,” I say, scrambling out of the SUV, scraping my palms against the broken glass.
Neve doesn’t argue. “Let’s go in,” she says, already walking toward the side door. “But stay out of their way. Okay?”
I nod, ready to follow her when something tugs at my thoughts: the bag of money. I spin on my heels, rush back to the SUV, and pull it out. The weight tugs on my shoulder as I jog toward the building.
Inside, it’s blinding. Fluorescent lightsbuzz overhead, bouncing off linoleum floors that smell strongly of bleach and something else.
Wet fur. It smells like wet dog.
A sharp bark comes from somewhere down the hall. I look at Neve. “Is that . . .?”
“Come on,” she says, gesturing for me to follow.
We walk down a long hallway lined withpictures of cats and dogs with cute slogans in cartoon fonts, paw prints painted along the baseboards.
“Are we in a . . .?” I start to ask, but lose my words when we pass an open door. Inside, Damian is sitting upright on a metal table, half-leaning against the wall, his shirt folded up, bandages half-wrapped around his side. His face is drawn tight with pain, but he’s alive. His eyes focus on me the second I walk in.
I glance around the room. Dog crates stacked in the corners. Shelves of medical supplies. Posters about flea medication andheartworm prevention. “No way,” I whisper. “Is this a vet’s office?”
Damian barks out a short laugh, immediately wincing as he clutches his side. “Don’t make me laugh,” he mutters. “Seriously.”
“Don’t you need a people hospital?” I ask, glancing at the jars of dog treats and the oversized cartoon bone decal on the cabinet.
The man crouched next to Damian looks up, smiling calmly as he works on the wound. “He’ll be fine. It looks like a lot of blood, but it really isn’t.” He flicks a glance toward Damian’s pale, sweating face. “He just passed out because he’s a pussy.”
