Brass slices my vest away, his knife flashing in the dim light. He assesses the wound, his hands moving fast. “Through the soft tissue,” he reports to Ghost. “Missed the spine, but he’s losing volume fast. We need a trauma center.”
“Thank God we brought them.”
“Five minutes out,” Torque calls from the front.
I grip Talia’s hand. I squeeze it, trying to tell her I’m still fighting, even if I can’t speak.
TWENTY-ONE
Talia
EXTRACTION
The van smells of diesel,burnt rubber, and the heavy, metallic scent of too much blood.
Torque drives like a man possessed, banking the heavy armored vehicle around corners with g-forces that slam us against the walls. Every bump, every turn, sends a fresh jolt of pain across Jackson’s face.
He doesn’t make a sound. He just grays out, his skin turning the color of wet ash.
“Pressure,” Brass barks, his hands slick with red. “Don’t let up.”
My hands are buried in the wound at Jackson’s side. The Kevlar stopped the first round, but the second found the gap. It tore through the soft armor and into the flesh above his hip. It feels hot. Too hot. The blood pumps against my palms, a wet, rhythmic reminder of how fragile he is.
“I’ve got it,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”
Jackson’s eyes are slits. He fights to keep them open, fighting the gravity of shock.
“Status,” he rasps.
“Shut up,” Ghost says from the passenger seat. He’s on the comms, coordinating a route that avoids police scanners and traffic cameras. “We’re four minutes out. Hold on.”
“Talia.” Jackson’s hand fumbles blindly, seeking mine.
I lace my blood-slicked fingers through his. “I’m here.”
“The drive,” he murmurs. “Secure?”
“I have it. It’s safe.”
“Good.” His head lolls back against the metal floor. “Good.”
“Stay with me.” I squeeze his hand, hard enough to hurt. “You don’t get to check out. You promised me a conversation. You promised me ‘after.’”
His lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. “I keep—my promises.”
“Then keep your eyes open.”
The van swerves violently. Tires screech. We decelerate, momentum throwing me forward. Brass catches my shoulder, steadying me.
“We’re here,” Torque yells.
The rear doors fly open.
We spill into the underground loading dock—bright lights, polished concrete, the sharp echo of boots and shouted commands bouncing off the walls. It looks less like a garage and more like the valet entrance of a luxury hotel… If a luxury hotel kept a trauma team waiting in the center of its floor.
Five people in scrubs stand ready beside a gurney.
Not surprised.
