Dalton slowed, checking his mirrors as he eased onto the shoulder, eyeing the turnoff up ahead. “I’ll get us turned around. Head back. Hold on.”
The vehicle bounced, gravel ticking off the undercarriage as he positioned the motorhome for the tight turn. He held steady, the turnoff quickly approaching on the left, when a concussive crunch rocked the RV, the backend fishtailing through the gravel.
Dalton fought the wheel, turning into the spin as headlights winked on — cut through the night behind them, the beams mapping out the next hit. Metal screeched, the entire chassis tipping onto the right wheels before slamming back, sending anything not tied down hurtling across the interior. Buck’s arm shot out, blocked a box from smacking into her injured shoulder as the RV skidded sideways, Dalton somehow keeping it upright.
He wrestled it back, veered onto the asphalt when bullets sprayed across the side panels, punching through the metal as if it were paper. Buck ripped free of the seatbelt, took her to the floor, his massive body shielding her as the other vehicle rammed them again, driving them off the road.
The RV rocked across the shoulder, smashed through the guardrail, hitting rocks and logs, momentum keeping it moving. Tires popped, what sounded like the rear axle cracking as they hit the side of a hill, careened over the edge.
A roar filled her head. Glass exploded. The world tipped hard, then vanished into tumbling black as the motorhome tore through the underbrush and rolled into the dark.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Buck woke to a suffocating darkness, the world tilted at a sickening forty-five-degree angle. Pneumatic lines hissed beyond the broken chassis, the encroaching mist creeping in through the shattered windows. Diesel and scorched rubber permeated the air, squares of shattered safety glass spread across the interior.
Outside, the RV groaned, creaking and shifting as it inched forward, pitching down, branches scratching against the metal frame, snapping when the motorhome lurched forward. The interior surged with it, debris skittering toward the front, a horrifying groan splitting the air.
Buck blinked, pain hammering through his head, the scenery sliding left and right before finally stabilizing. He squinted in an effort to sharpen his vision, but everything just blurred into gray.
Tierney.
Her name formed before he’d fully roused, and he inhaled as everything came rushing back. The impacts, the lights, bullets chewing through the side panels. Taking her to the floor in the hopes of blocking any shots as they careened off the road, went over an embankment.
He peeled himself off the floor, praying he hadn’t crushed her in his attempt to shield her beneath him. She blinked when he touched her face, blood smeared down one side from a cut, her skin overly pale. She turned, cried out, pulse thrashing frantically beneath her skin, eyes rolling slightly.
He lifted the oversized hoodie he’d slipped on her, the crimson bloom on the bandages dropping his gut. “Shit. You’ve torn your stitches.”
She cradled her elbow, visibly trying to bury the pain. “I’m okay, just give me a second.”
“You’re gonna need a fucking hour to push down that kind of pain. And I don’t think we’ve got any to spare.” He removed his hoodie, then peeled off his shirt, balling it up as he pressed it beneath the bandages, heart stopping when she inhaled, looking as if she might pass out.
He adjusted the gauze, wishing he could do more when Dalton groaned from up front. Buck looked toward the driver’s side, noting the blood splattered across the passenger seat, the way Dalton’s right arm hung funny. He tugged on his hoodie and stood. “Dalton? Brother, are you okay?”
Dalton grunted, lifting his head, muttering a few curse words before he froze, looked out the windshield. “Nobody move.”
Buck gazed out the cracked window, one headlight shining through a tangle of branches. He squinted, tilted his head to compensate for the odd angle before inhaling. Water frothed about fifty feet beneath them, the RV’s chassis hung up on two massive cedar trees, a collection of thick limbs stabilizing them.
One of the branches cracked, and the trailer shot forward, punching through two more before grinding to a halt, more glass shattering in the back, a stray limb crashing through the window, narrowly missing Dalton’s shoulder.
Buck caught himself on part of the frame, then inched forward, planting each step carefully before stopping next to his buddy. He tried Dalton’s seatbelt, but nothing happened when he clicked the button. “I’ve got a knife…”
Dalton snagged Buck’s wrist. “Focus on Tierney. I can wait.”
A flash of light a hundred feet above them caught Buck’s attention as he peered out Dalton’s side window. Flashlights cut through the darkness, additional headlights outlining their silhouettes.
Freakishly large, wearing the same kind of PMC gear Grieves’ men had, the mercenaries fanned out, weapons silhouetted in the harsh light. One of the men twirled his hand, pointed at the wreck.
“Damn.” Buck tried the release, again, yanking and kicking until the clasp finally popped free. Dalton tumbled out of the seat, hitting the arm of the other chair before smacking the side, the impact shaking the entire structure. Trees groaned, branches giving a bit, but they held.
He staggered to his feet, arm hanging at an unusual angle before he jammed it against the steel frame, popped everything back into place.
Buck grabbed him when he sagged. “Jesus, Dalton, what the hell?”
Dalton waved Buck off. “Can’t fight or shoot with my arm like that. Had to do something. Those assholes are already picking their way down the embankment.” He nodded at Tierney. “How is she?”
Tierney huffed. “Alive enough to hear you.”
Dalton glanced at Buck, then slowly eased over, crouching beside her. “Can you walk?”
