Once, twice, the screech of metal against stone drowning out everything else. It came to rest on its side with a crunch that I felt in my chest, glassshattering outward in a glittering spray, cargo spilling from the buckled rear doors.
The remaining Wolves broke and ran. Two of them made it past our line, disappearing into the darkness with their engines screaming, choosing survival over loyalty. The others weren't so lucky—Irish had one pinned against the hillside, his bike blocking the only escape route. Hawk was already dismounting, his weapon out, moving toward the last rider with the unhurried confidence of a man who knew he'd already won.
I killed my engine and swung off the bike, my boots hitting pavement that was still warm from the van's tires.
"Tank!"
Tyler's voice, sharp with warning.
I spun.
The van's rear doors had burst open in the crash, and a figure was crawling out—a Wolf I hadn't accounted for, a fifth man riding in the cargo area. His face was bloody from the rollover, his movements unsteady, but the gun in his hand was plenty steady as it came up toward my chest.
Time stretched. I saw the muzzle, the finger tightening on the trigger, the five feet between us that might as well have been five miles.
Tyler's shot echoed across the hillside.
The Wolf's arm snapped sideways, the gun flying from fingers that could no longer grip. He collapsed against the van's twisted frame with a scream, clutching his ruined forearm.
"Clear!" Tyler called, already moving to secure him.
I stood there for a moment, my heart hammering, watching Tyler work. He kicked the fallen weapon away, checked the Wolf for other threats with quick, professional pats along his body, zip-tied his wrists with the kind of practiced efficiency that spoke of hundreds of repetitions. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just clean, professional work.
A threat I'd missed. A bullet I would have taken.
Tyler had saved my life.
"Ghost is down!"
Irish's voice cut through the aftermath like a knife, high with panic. I turned and saw them thirty feet away—Irish crouched beside a figure on the ground, his hands pressed against something dark and wet.
I ran.
Ghost was on his back, face pale as milk in the moonlight, his hands pressed against his thigh where blood was seeping between his fingers in steady pulses. His jeans were soaked with it, the denim gone black, and the smell hit me before I reached him—copper and salt, the particular scent of life leaving a body.
Not the femoral. Please not the femoral.
I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands finding the wound by instinct. Entry and exit—thebullet had gone clean through the meat of his upper thigh, missing the bone but tearing through muscle and vessels. Blood welled up around my fingers, warm and urgent.
"Hold pressure." I grabbed Irish's hands and positioned them. "Right here. Don't let go."
"It hurts." Ghost's voice was young, too young, the voice of a kid who'd thought he was invincible until sixty seconds ago. His eyes were too wide, his breathing too fast, shock starting to settle in around the edges. "Tank, it really hurts?—"
"I know. You're going to be fine." I stripped off my belt, looping it above the wound, pulling it tight enough to make him cry out. "The bullet went clean through, and you're too stubborn to die from a leg wound. You hear me? Too goddamn stubborn."
"Can't feel my foot?—"
"That's the tourniquet. It's supposed to do that." I cinched the belt tighter, watched his face contort with pain. "Where's Rosa's team?"
"On the way." Hawk's voice came from somewhere behind me. "Axel called it in. Five minutes."
Five minutes. Ghost could survive five minutes. People survived worse than this every day.
I stayed with him, one hand keeping pressure on the wound, the other gripping his shoulder hard enough to anchor him. His blood was warm on my fingers, soaking into my jeans, pooling on the asphalt beneath us in a spreading dark mirror that reflected the stars.
"Stay with me, kid. Talk to me."
"About what?" His laugh was weak, shaky, turning into a groan halfway through.
