There is no time to think. No time to calculate. There is only the dot, and the heart beating beneath it, and the absolute certainty that I will not let it stop.
"Get down!"
I throw myself across the center console. I tackle him, my weight slamming into his chest, shoving him down into the footwell just as the windshield shatters.
Crack.
The bullet punches through the glass, tearing a hole through the leather headrest where Alessandro’s head was a fraction of a second ago. The sound is deafening in the confined space. Glass sprays over us like diamonds.
"Drive!" Alessandro shouts from the floor, his hand already reaching for the gear shift. "Drive!"
I scramble back into the driver's seat, keeping my head low below the dash. I slam the car into reverse. Tires scream against the wet asphalt. We spin out, gravel spraying, another shot pinging off the rear fender with a metallicclang.
I stomp on the gas. The Volvo lurches forward, fishtailing wildly before gripping the road. We tear out of the lot, engine roaring, leaving the shattered glass and the betrayal behind us.
I risk a glance at the passenger seat. Alessandro is pulling himself up, brushing glass from his jacket. His face is pale, but his eyes are burning with a cold, hard fury.
He looks at me.
"You saved me," he says.
"They missed," I rasp, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"No," he says. "They didn't miss. You moved."
I look back at the road. The red dot is gone, but it’s burned into my retina. And the face of the man who set us up is burned into my soul.
Seamus.
The war just came home.
Chapter Thirteen
ALESSANDRO
The windshield explodes inward.
There is no sound at first—just a sudden, violent pressure change that pops my ears, followed by the terrifying disintegration of the world in front of me. Glass sprays across the cabin, not like diamonds, but like shrapnel—sharp, stinging hail that bites into my cheeks and eyelids.
"Down!"
Killian’s hand is a heavy weight on the back of my neck, shoving me forward. My face smashes into my knees. A split second later, a second round tears through the space my head just occupied. I hear thethwip-crackof the bullet passing, followed by the wet, dense thud of lead burying itself in the leather headrest.
The shooter is adjusting. The first round was the glass—clearing the obstruction. The second was the kill shot.
"Out. Your side. Now."
Killian’s voice is unrecognizable. It isn't the voice of the man who kissed me in the kitchen or the man who confessed his childhoodtrauma ten minutes ago. It is a growl, stripped of humanity, pure command.
I fumble for the door handle. My fingers are numb. I shove the door open and roll out onto the wet asphalt. The impact jars my shoulder, scraping skin through the jacket, but I scramble on hands and knees, putting the engine block between me and the sightline.
Killian is out his side. I hear his boots hitting the pavement—heavy, fast. He isn't taking cover. He is moving away from the car.
"Go south!" he roars. He’s twenty feet away, sprinting toward the open lot, making himself a massive, moving target in the darkness. "The loading bays! I’ll pull them east!"
A third shot rings out. Sparks fly from the pavement near Killian’s heels.
He’s drawing fire.
