He glances down at me. A muscle flutters along his jawline like a trapped moth. A droplet breaks free from his hairline, cutting a crooked path through the dust coating his skin before disappearing beneath his collar. Sunlight catches something wet and dark streaking from his hairline to his collar—turning the smear copper-bright for just a heartbeat.
I swipe my tongue over my lips, tasting blood. “Are you hurt? Where’s Gage?”
I twist against Bishop’s grip, desperate to stand on my own, but my left arm swings uselessly from the socket. I try to lift it—a mistake. Something inside my shoulder grinds and pops like wet gravel underfoot. Acid floods my mouth. My vision whites out for three heartbeats. When I twitch my fingers, electricity arcs through me, a live wire from collarbone to fingertips.
Bishop’s arms tighten. “Knock it off,” he grunts, muscles bunching as he readjusts.
“Fuck,” I hiss, the word escaping through teeth clamped so tight my jaw aches.
Bishop’s jaw clenches. “You’re alright.” The words land like commands between us. The highway tilts and rights itself, asphalt swimming in my vision.
My tongue feels too thick. “Where—” Each syllable scrapes my throat raw. I crane my neck, scanning the debris field. “Lola?” The name dissolves into a rasp. “Beck?—”
I try to swallow but can’t, my mouth dry as sand. “Where—” The word catches like barbed wire in my throat. My neck strains as I twist it, eyes darting across scattered metal and glass glinting in the sun. “Lola? Beck?—”
“They’re fine.” His arms tighten around me, like he’s worried I’m going to try to get down again. Sunlight catches his eyes, shrinking his pupils to black pinpricks. Through the haze, Lola’s blonde ponytail whips as she lunges for plastic rolls scattered across the shoulder, her fingers clawing at each one. She moves like a knife—all sharp angles and deadly purpose.
Beckett staggers twenty feet away, face bleached bone-white against the dark asphalt. His throat works, Adam’s apple lurching up and down as he clutches an armful of something against his chest. His knuckles shine white through skin stretched too tight.
Air finally rushes into my chest.
Rafe’s boots crunch over glittering shards as he prowls in widening circles, gun held at eye level. He pivots with each step, head tilting slightly like he’s tasting the air. Cruz’s palms press flat against the scorching pavement, dark-blond hair plastered to his scalp. Something wet and red snakes behind his ear, disappearing into his collar. His shoulders rise and fall in violent jerks.
Beside him, Gage’s lips move, forming shapes I can’t hear through the high whine filling my head. A crimson bead traces the sharp edge of his jaw before dropping onto white fabric, blooming outward like spilled wine.
Copper floods my mouth. My stomach heaves. “What happened?”
Bishop’s chest rises against my cheek. “Truck flipped. We got hit.”
Hit. The word hangs in the air like smoke. Thirty feet away, the armored truck lies on its side, metal torn open like a gutted fish. Rolls of plastic, chips, and equipment glitter across the highway. My ears still ring. I try to remember the crash—the moment before this chaos—but there’s nothing. Just Cruz’s laugh, then asphalt against my skin.
“Who?” The word scrapes my throat raw.
A muscle jumps beneath Bishop’s stubble. His breath hisses through flared nostrils. “I don’t know yet.”
“What did they get?” I force the question out through the mounting dread.
His lips peel back from his teeth. “At least one bin.”
My vision swims. There’s a bin just floating out there now. One that’s traceable to us—toBeckett and Lola. My throat closes as if someone’s tightening a fist around it.
“Put me down,” I whisper.
“No.”
“Put me?—”
Saliva floods my mouth, and my tongue goes numb at the edges. Something rises from my stomach, burning all the way up. “I’m gonna throw up.”
Bishop mutters something sharp and guttural as he drops to a crouch. The movement jars my shoulder, sending white-hot pain shooting down to my fingertips. A sound escapes me—high and tight and strangled—as my boots scrape against roughasphalt. My knees connect first with a dull thud that vibrates up my thighs. My palm slaps the pavement, tiny rocks embedding themselves in my skin. I fold forward, hanging my head between my shoulders, copper-tang of blood mixing with bitter acid at the back of my throat while the black asphalt beneath me seems to rise and fall like ocean swells.
“Fuck,” I whisper. My eyes burn, vision blurring as they always do before I vomit.
Bishop’s shadow eclipses the sun. His fingers find my braid, yanking backward until my scalp stings. Stubble scrapes my cheek as he leans in close. “Don’t you fucking dare, Hale.” Each syllable scorches my ear, hard as bullets. “Keep your shit together. Deep breaths in through your nose. I’m not scraping your vomit off the side of the road, and we’re not leaving even one speck of DNA behind,got it?”
Something bubbles up my throat—half- laugh, half-retch. I force it back down, feeling every jagged edge as it descends.
The blacktop ripples beneath my palm like water.
