Page 11 of The Ashes of Summer

"It felt real," I rasp.

Too fucking real.

"It's over, boss," Carter says quietly. "We'll find her."

Over. The word turns bitter the second it lands. Nothing is over. Not while she's still out there. Not while he's still breathing. Not while I'm sitting in this truck having nightmares instead of putting a bullet in the man who took her.

I drag my tongue over my teeth and taste blood where I've bitten the inside of my cheek. And then I turn to face the rear seat.

Calder lays there. Twenty-three years old. Four years on the job. Never once gave me a reason to question him. Stood with me without hesitation—didn't ask what we were walking into, didn't flinch when it turned violent, just moved when I moved and trusted that I knew what I was doing.

I didn't. He's dead because I didn't.

I let that thought linger for exactly as long as I can stand it. Then I lock it down.

Grief comes later. Guilt comes later. Everything comes later.

Reyes makes a sound behind me. I've heard it too many times over the years—in alleyways, interrogation rooms and the backs of ambulances. It's the sound of a body reaching its limit. Wet. Dragged out of him like his body doesn't have enough left to do it properly. Half breath, half choke—every inhale has to fight its way through blood before it reaches his lungs. As though something inside him is already giving up.

Mason's got him braced against his thigh, one hand locked hard over the bandage at his ribs. It's useless. The gauze is gone, soaked through, blood slicking over Mason's fingers, dripping into the leather.

Too much blood.

Far too fucking much.

I look at the clock on the dash—she’s been gone for almost an hour. I shouldn’t be here. I should be running. I should be burning the fucking world down. I should have left my men to sort this shit. I should have⁠—

"We're almost there," Mason mutters, cutting through my thoughts. His voice rough, tight in a way I've never heard from him. "Stay with me. Come on—stay with me."

Reyes doesn't answer. His eyes are half open, unreactive. Skin graying at the edges. Lips losing color. Every breath shallower than the last.

Borrowed.

Just like the time I've got left to get to her.

I sit in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead—but I hear every second of it. Every pull of air. Every hitch. Every failure. It fills the truck. There's no space left for anything else.

Except the image burned into the back of my skull—rotor blades cutting through the sky.

"How long?" Mason asks, cutting through my thoughts.

"Five minutes," Carter says, steady, eyes fixed on the road as rain smears across the windshield faster than the wipers can clear it.

Five minutes. Five more minutes she's out of my reach. Five more minutes for him to put distance between us.

I'm already reaching for my phone. Tamara will be on shift. She always is when things go bad.

ER doctor. Discreet. Doesn't ask questions she doesn't want answers to and keeps everything confidential.

Useful.

I hit her contact.

She answers on the second ring. "Sheriff–"

"We're two minutes out," I say, watching Reyes through the mirror. "Gunshot wound to the ribs with heavy blood loss. He's fading."

Reyes drags in another breath behind me. The rattle starting to kick in. I don't look away.