“Let’s go get my girl,” he says, voice steadier than his legs.
The words hit like a fist to the sternum. I swallow the correction burning in my throat.
“And our brother,” I add instead, checking the magazine on my weapon.
Gage swipes his forearm across his face, painting stripes of his own blood from temple to hairline. His eyes gleam brighter beneath the crimson smear. “Yeah, him too.”
I jerk my chin toward the door. “Bishop’s almost out of ammo. It’s now or never.”
As one, we spin toward the opening, guns raised. Metal fragments glint like teeth in the half-light. A security panel dangles by frayed wires, sparking intermittently. Three dentedbins remain, their locks twisted but intact. Blood splatters the floor by the busted-out back doors.
Gage’s voice rips through the air. “Bellamy!” He vaults over a twisted metal panel, boots skidding on blood-slicked floors as he launches himself from the cargo area.
I pivot, planting myself between the retreating figures and my brother’s exposed back. My finger tenses on the trigger, but the thieves are already loading up. One of them heaves a dented security bin through the back doors of their idling Mack, the engine growling like something feral. Two others stumble backward, arms cradled around stacks of casino chips in plastic sleeves that catch sunlight in hypnotic flashes.
A scrape of metal against concrete pulls my attention left. Cruz’s fingers leave crimson streaks along the truck’s frame as he drags himself forward. Blood paints a crooked path from hairline to jaw, his shirt darkening at the ribs with each labored breath. His eyes never leave the motionless blonde figure on the asphalt as he staggers forward, one foot dragging slightly behind the other.
My finger twitches on the trigger. Three steps would get me to Cruz before he collapses. Five would reach Bellamy’s still form. But the retreating figures are still armed, still moving, and someone has to watch the perimeter. My boots remain planted, body angled to cover all three directions at once, muscles burning with the strain of stillness.
Cruz’s lips form her name without sound. Then his hand hangs between his shoulders and he slumps to the ground. My heart slams against my ribs, but my feet might as well be bolted to the concrete.
Bishop rounds the back of the truck and beelines toward Gage, who’s staggering as he tries to lift Bellamy. Her braid swings like a pendulum over his arm, golden against the blood-soaked asphalt, and something primal claws up my throat.
I wasn’t going to shoot at retreating thieves, but my trigger finger spasms with raw fucking need. Blood roars in my ears. These cocksuckers hurt her, made her bleed, and something ancient and feral claws up from my gut. My vision narrows to pinpricks of red. I squeeze off two rounds before I even realize I’ve moved.
The Mack’s engine thunders to life, gears grinding as the thieves jump into the cab. I line up a shot through a gap in the cab, but the bastard driving is either smart or lucky—he guns it before I can pull the trigger, the rig shuddering as it lurches into gear and swerves out onto the highway.
I track their retreat through my sights, heart hammering against my ribs like it wants out. Could be a trap. Could be more of them circling behind us right now, boots silent on concrete, weapons raised at the backs of our skulls.
One blink—one fuckingheartbeat—and we’re all dead where we stand. My trigger finger cramps, jaw locked so tight my molars might crack.
Not today. Not like this. Death can get fucked because I’m not done here. Not even close.
THREE
BELLAMY
Heat isthe first thing I feel.
Not sunlight exactly. Just a hard, punishing warmth pressed against my cheek, baked into the asphalt, seeping into my skin like the road is trying to brand itself onto me. There’s gravel in my mouth. Blood too, metallic and thick on my tongue. Somewhere above me the world is screaming in a cacophony of sound. It reaches me through a high, relentless ringing that makes everything sound somehow too loud and muffled.
Everything throbs, and my stomach rolls. For one dizzy second, I have no idea which way is up.
Then movement jolts through me, rough enough to make pain flare bright and white behind my eyes.
Gage’s face appears above mine, blood sliding over his brow and dipping toward his eye. His mouth is moving but I can’t hear him over the ringing in my ears. I try to stop the blood before it hits his eye, but my arm doesn’t follow my command.
What the hell is going on?
His brows crease. Rough palms wedge between my spine and the hot pavement. The world tilts as he hauls me upward—a lightning bolt shoots from my shoulder down to my fingertips,white-hot and electric. My lungs seize. Black spots dance behind my clenched eyelids, and then gravity shifts again, my stomach lurching as I feel weightless for one terrifying second.
I’m jostled again, and I grit my teeth against a wave of nausea and confusion.
The world bounces in rhythm. My cheek presses against something unyielding that rises and falls with breath. My feet dangle over empty space, knees caught in the crook of an arm. Sweat and gunpowder fill my nostrils with each inhale, mingling with the scent of cotton baked by the sun. My left side screams with each footfall, the pain lighting up like a struck match every time my carrier’s boot hits the ground.
I peel my eyes open to a blur of tan skin and dark stubble where I expected Gage’s smooth jaw. Bishop’s face hovers above mine, hard angles and tight lines where there should be Gage’s easy smile. The scar cutting through his left eyebrow twitches as he adjusts his grip.
“Bishop?”
