It’s not enough to stop them.
It’s enough to buy me seconds. I turn back to the truck and close the distance. Metal bites into my palm as I haul myself onto the hood. Gage’s blood smears what’s left of the shattered windshield, and I make a mental note to hit it with a bleach bomb after he’s out.
Three seconds exposed. Four. Five.
Heat from the engine block sears through my jeans, and a bullet pings off metal six inches from my knee.
Bishop’s gun cracks from below, the sound reassuring.
My palm sizzles against the sun-baked metal door handle. I yank, and nothing happens. I yank again, harder this time. The hinges shriek and give an inch.
“Goddamnit.”
I slam my boot against the doorframe and pull with everything I’ve got. The door tears open with a metallic groan. Jagged glass fragments catch sunlight along the window frame, each one demanding a blood tithe.
Something hot slides down my temple, hits my eyelashes. The world smears into watercolor violence until I drag my forearm across my face, reality snapping back into focus.
I reach the opening and drag myself into the cab. The smell hits me first—copper and sweat. Gage’s neck is bent against the seat, chin nearly touching his collarbone. His chest rises, falls. My fingers find the hollow beneath his jaw, where a steady thump pushes back against my touch. His eyelids twitch, thenopen. A muscle in his jaw tightens as he blinks several times. His fingers curl against the seat, scraping for purchase.
“Welcome back, brother,” I say, voice steady despite the bullets pinging metal outside. We’re one shitty shot away from those motherfuckers hitting a fuel line, and then we’re both fucked. “C’mon, the party’s just getting started.”
His throat works. What comes out is half-grunt, half-wheeze, but his hand reaches for the seatbelt. He fumbles with the latch, fingers slipping against the metal.
“What the fuck, Rafe?” he grunts.
“Your choices are come with me or get to the car with the kid.” I jerk my head behind me, toward our cars while counting seconds between shots.
“Bellamy,” he rasps.
Her name hits like a round to the chest. Behind my eyes flashes a blonde braid splayed across asphalt, her body too still against the ground. My jaw locks tight enough to crack teeth. “I know.”
“There are no seatbelts in the back, Rafe.”
I nod, once, twice. “You with me?” The knife’s already in my hand, blade glinting under sunlight streaked with dust.
“Ye—yeah.” His head shakes, eyes fighting to focus.
“Brace yourself.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His boot slams against the interior panel, muscles coiling even through the haze of pain. The blade slices through nylon with a whispered hiss.
The strap gives, and his weight drops.
He catches himself on instinct, boots striking metal with a hollow clang before he lurches toward the narrow passage between cab and cargo hold. “This way is faster.”
I guess he made his choice. I follow, dropping beside him as the world outside erupts in fresh gunfire.
Gage slams his boot against the metal divider, the impact reverberating through the cab. His body sways, knees buckling. My hand shoots out, fingers digging into his shoulder, steadying him against the wall.
“Maybe you should sit this out.”
Blood trickles from his hairline, painting a crooked path down his temple. His pupils dilate unevenly as he locks eyes with me. “I’m fine.” His voice scrapes like gravel. He shifts his weight, winces, then draws his leg back again. Tendons strain in his neck as his jaw locks. “That’s my fucking girl out there. And I’m not a fucking coward. So stop wasting your fucking breath.”
The door explodes inward with a metallic screech. We flatten against opposite walls in one fluid motion, weapons raised, breath held.
I hold his gaze. Something electric crackles between us—that old familiar feeling before we do something reckless. My mouth twitches first, then splits wide open. Gage mirrors it instantly, blood-flecked teeth catching the light.
“Ready, brother?”
