I adjust my aim and squeeze the trigger.
The round catches him high in the chest, and he stumbles backward, both hands flying to the wound as his gun tumbles from his fingers. It lands in the dirt with a soft thump, and then he’s on his knees with blood spreading across his shirt in a dark stain that pulses with each frantic beat of his heart.
I move forward with my weapon still raised, checking each body. The first two are motionless with eyes open and glazed. The third one—the skinny bastard with the missing teeth—is still alive, gasping for air that gurgles wetly in his throat.
I stand over him and keep my gun trained on his face. “Who sent you?”
He coughs, and blood sprays from his lips, spattering across his chin and down his neck. “Fuck… you…”
I raise the Glock higher. “Last chance.”
His hand whips out with desperate speed, fingers closing around the pistol he dropped. He swings it up with his arm shaking so violently I can see the tremor from where I stand, and then his finger finds the trigger.
The muzzle flash is bright in the afternoon sun.
Fire explodes in my left side—white-hot and searing like someone drove a molten spike through my ribs. The impact spins me halfway around, and my boots slip in the loose dirt as pain radiates outward from the wound.
My finger jerks the trigger on pure reflex.
The bullet punches through his forehead, and his head snaps back before he collapses face-first into the dust, finally still.
I press my palm to my side, and it comes away slick with blood. The dark red stain spreads across my shirt, warm and sticky against my skin. Too much blood. Too fast.
My knees buckle, and I hit the ground hard enough to jar my teeth. The gun slips from my other hand and lands in the dirt beside me.
Fuck.
30
BONNIE
He’s been gone for three hours when I hear the engine.
I’m at the window in seconds, heart pounding, gun in my shaking hands. The truck lurches up the dirt road, headlights bouncing wildly. Driving too fast. Too erratic.
Something’s wrong.
The truck skids to a stop in front of the safe house. The driver’s door opens, and Ghost half falls out, catching himself on the frame.
Even from here, I can see the blood.
“Oh my god.” The gun drops from my hands.
I run.
Ghost is trying to walk, but his left side is soaked red. His face is pale. Sweat drips down his temples despite the cool desert air.
“Ghost!” I reach him just as his knees buckle.
I catch him—barely. He’s too heavy, too solid, and I’m too weak from days of morning sickness. We both sink to the ground.
“Got shot,” he mutters. Blood on his lips. “Savage Legion.”
“Don’t talk. Save your strength.” I press my hand to his side, and he hisses through his teeth. My palm comes away red and slick. “We need to get you inside.”
“Can’t…walk.”
“You have to. Come on.” I get under his arm, taking as much of his weight as I can. “You’re not dying out here in the dirt.”
