Callum’s voice went flat. “That is not what I asked.”
“No. I don’t know if she needs a hospital yet. But she needs a doctor fast. Club doctor, if Santa Fe has one close. She’s conscious. Pulse is strong. Head’s bleeding, hand’s burned, maybe ribs. She’s high on something and shocky.”
Callum stepped closer, eyes scanning her like he was doing the same math. “And the scene?”
“Bad.”
Nate snorted. “Cars are exploding and rich kids are scattering like it’s 2003 Iraq.”
Callum cut him a look.
Nate lifted both hands. “Accurate summary.”
I kept my voice steady. “Kids are all over the place. Cops are rolling in. Fire’s spreading. Edge’s bike went down off-trail. Nate moved it out of immediate sight, but it has to be recovered before someone connects her to it.”
Callum looked toward the ridge again.
“Anyone see you take her?”
“No.”
“Kids?”
“Too high, too scared, too busy filming their own downfall.”
Callum’s mouth tightened. “Phones?”
“Everywhere.”
That was the problem.
It was always the problem now.
Once, a bad night could be buried with shovels, silence, and men who knew how to keep their mouths shut. Now every idiot with a phone could turn a family’s worst moment into a thousand shares before sunrise.
Destiny stirred again.
“My dad’s gonna kill me,” she whispered.
Callum looked at her then, and something almost like pity crossed his face.
“No, little girl,” he said quietly. “Your father is going to kill everyone else first.”
I didn’t like the way relief moved through me at that.
Not because Callum was wrong.
Because he was right.
And because some part of me, some stupid outlaw part with no sense of self-preservation, approved.
I carried her to the truck.
The rear door opened upward with a mechanical hiss. Nate climbed in first and cleared space, shoving a gear bag aside. I eased Destiny into the back seat, but the second I tried to set her down, she made a broken sound and clutched at my cut.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
My entire body locked.
