I don't think. Don't hesitate. I grab the pistol from Travis's hip—the same one I couldn't grip when he found me bleeding on the road—and my hand is steady now. Reggy's voice echoes in my head:Breathe. Aim. Squeeze, don't pull.
Two shots. The first goes wide, but the second catches the rider in the shoulder. He jerks sideways, loses control. His motorcycle hits a rock and goes airborne, the crash brutal enough that I know he's not getting back up.
"Nice shot!" Travis yells.
"Reggy taught me!" I yell back, and the grief that hits me is sharp but clean. Not the crushing weight it was before—just acknowledgment. Reggy's dead, but his lessons kept me alive. That matters. That means something.
The second rider adjusts his approach, hanging back now, more cautious. Smart. Professional. These aren't desperate survivors—they're trained fighters who've been doing this for months.
The rage surges hot and immediate, but I push it down. Travis was right—this isn't about revenge. It's about survival. About making sure no one else dies the way my crew did.
The forest starts thinning ahead. I see why Travis's jaw is set tight—there's a creek bed coming up, maybe twenty feet wide, rocky banks on either side.
"Hold on," he says, and something in his voice makes my stomach drop.
"Travis, that's too wide!"
"I know."
"We can't!"
"Hold on, Hazel."
He guns the engine.
We hit the lip of the creek bed at maximum velocity. For a second that stretches into eternity, we're airborne. Wind roars past. The ATV's engine screams. I bury my face against Travis's back and hold on with every ounce of strength I have.
We land hard. The suspension bottoms out with a groan that sounds like metal tearing, and the impact jars through my whole body. But we land on the opposite bank, wheels gripping dirt, engine still running.
Behind us, the motorcycle tries the same jump.
Doesn't make it.
I hear the crash, metal on rock, the brutal physics of momentum meeting immovable objects. Then silence.
Travis doesn't slow down. Doesn't look back. Just keeps driving until we've put another mile between us and the ambush site, until the trees are thick again and the only sounds are our engines and my heart hammering in my ears.
When he finally stops, I'm shaking so hard I can barely let go.
"Hazel." His hands are on my face immediately, turning me to look at him. "Are you hurt?"
"No." I grab his shirt, fisting the fabric like it's the only solid thing in the world. "You jumped twenty feet."
"Eighteen. Maybe nineteen." His eyes search my face, checking for injuries, for shock, for anything wrong.
"Don't you dare do that again."
"Can't promise that." But he's smiling slightly, and the relief in his expression mirrors what I'm feeling. "You okay? Really okay?"
Instead of answering, I kiss him. Hard and desperate and fierce, tasting fear and adrenaline and the sharp edge of being alive when we should be dead. He kisses me back with the same intensity, his hands gentle on my face even as his mouth is demanding.
We break apart when Ken and Patricia's ATV pulls up, Jess clutching her bleeding arm.
Right. Medic. I'm a medic.
I force myself to switch gears, examining Jess's injury with hands that are steadier than they should be. Bullet grazed her upper arm—painful, bleeding, but not serious. I clean it, bandage it, give her water and painkillers from our supply kit.
"You're getting good at this," Jess says, watching me work.
