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Even bleeding, he shoved me closer to the side of the truck, and I stumbled.

Lachlan caught Rafael around the upper body just as his knees gave out.

Together they moved along the narrow space between the truck and the retaining wall until they reached the cab, out of the direct line of fire.

Rafael sagged against Lachlan.

“Easy,” Lachlan said in a low voice.

I was already dropping to my knees as Lachlan lowered Rafael onto the concrete near the service door, keeping us behind the truck’s cover. The single key hanging from a short leather strap slipped from his hand and clattered onto the concrete.

The truck blocked most of the courtyard from view, as gunfire and shouted orders continued on the other side.

Lachlan checked the courtyard past the front of the truck, then returned and knelt on Rafael’s other side with his gun at the ready.

The door we had spent all those hours plotting to escape through was close enough for me to touch.

But blood was pouring through Rafael’s shirt.

“No. No, no, no.”

I pressed both hands against the wound, and hot blood seeped between my fingers.

“Rafael, hang on. We’ll get you help.”

He quickly assessed the wound, his mouth forming a hard line.

I saw the answer on Lachlan’s face.

“Please, no. Don’t you dare leave me.”

Rafael’s eyelids fluttered.

His face had gone gray.

I pressed harder, determined to do something—anything.

“Rafael, look at me.”

He opened his eyes.

“Mi niña.”

“I’m here.” My voice broke. “I’m right here.”

His hand moved to my forearm, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. I kept my palms pressed against the wound.

“Go.”

“No.”

“Isabella, you must.”

“No.” More blood slipped between my fingers. “We can get you out. Lachlan can help me carry you. We can—”

“Mouse.”

Lachlan’s voice was low beside me.