Then he kicks it backward and takes cover inside the truck while the world trembles.
The explosion is deafening. A concussive wave punches the air from his lungs and folds metal like tissue paper. Heat lashes across his side. Shrapnel rattles against the truck, and something heavy slams into the ceiling above him.
The whole thing rocks and folds, and for a second, Wyatt loses whatever ability he once had to stay conscious. Darkness consumes him along with a burning flame roping up his hip. His last thought is of Addison and how she’ll assume he left her like everyone else.
He should have told her that he loved her before he was dragged away, audience be damned.
* * *
He is face-first into a steering wheel, and he’s lost his leg.
No, that’s not true. He still has all four limbs, it only feels like he’s lost a leg because of the flames from the grenade that licked across his skin when he leaned away. The pain sharpens him back to reality against his will.
Wyatt flexes his arms and his neck and slides haphazardly onto the ground within the tunnel, the smoke from the explosion still coating his already aching lungs.
Ash drifts down like dirty snow. It highlights the burned rubber he tastes with every breath.
There’s a lone rotter caught under a pile of metal, reaching bony hands in his direction, and he grants it a mercy that no one else will have the option of doing, slamming his tire iron into its head. There’s anger in his movements now that has little to do with the poor bastard below him and everything to do with how badly he wants to get through all this bullshit and back home.
He hits it again just to be sure. Then one more time, for good measure.
One foot in front of the other is all he has left to offer. Wyatt limps toward the exit, letting out a slightly manic laugh when he realizes he’s quite literally walking into the light at the end of the tunnel.
The way it echoes only makes him sound even more unhinged.
Soon, the darkness gives way to a blinding view of the red rocks, welcoming him with golden sunlight as if he hadn’t almost died a moment ago.
The heat hits his burned hip, and he hisses through his teeth.
Three miles to the Sedona Resort and Spa is what the sign tells him. He can do three miles. Sure. Why not? Easy. Only a walk in the post-apocalyptic park that takes hours because he’s losing steam, and he can’t quite feel his feet anymore.
The road tilts upward more than it looks like it should. Each step sends a dull vibration up his spine. His shirt sticks to his back, and his vision fuzzes at the edges more than once.
It could be worse. Could also be a hell of a lot better.
He almost trips twice. Doesn’t remember the last stretch of pavement at all. When he finally rounds the corner of a thin mountain road and the rocks give way to his destination, Wyatt stops in his tracks, wondering if he might be hallucinating and the dehydration has finally gotten to him.
The Sedona Resort and Spa has plenty of Jeeps. In fact, it might have all of them.
They curl up the winding road nose to ass in a careful line. It should be a relief to suddenly be spoiled for choice, but Wyatt is distracted from his original target, his lips parting in surprise before they lift into a smug, self-assured smile.
The helicopter waiting on its pad, surrounded by guards, may not have wings, but he can damn sure still fly it. And flying beats driving every single time.
As far as plans go, this one is cobbled together at best and a death wish at worst.
Wyatt needs to get inside that chopper.
The chopper is surrounded by whatever group claimed this area.
They look far more organized than he would expect of Vincent’s cult, and they are most definitely armed and fed. That’s three points in their favor that Wyatt currently lacks. They’re not desperate yet. Desperate men make mistakes, and he really, really needs them to make a few mistakes.
The last thing Wyatt trusts is his own charm to get him what he wants. Introducing himself and asking to take a ride in that helicopter is out of the question unless he aims to eat a bullet. The world doesn’t work like that anymore. Anything worth having comes at a price, and no one accepts legal tender these days.
He’ll need a distraction. Thankfully, the line of Jeeps sweeping up the road offers him a possibility.
There’s enough cover from the surrounding brush that he’s able to creep up to the last parked vehicle and shift the gear into neutral. The elevation helps it slide easily, and Wyatt has just enough time to do the same to three other pink Jeeps, letting them careen off the edge of the cliff side.
The first one tips slowly, suspended for a few heavy moments before gravity claims it.
