They knew to duck.
They knew what happened when you didn’t.
He stood in the middle of it all, gun slack in his hand, blood cooling on his face.
Theodora lay sprawled near the bunks, her arm still outstretched, fingers curled around the pistol she’d meant to use on him. Her eyes—the shade he couldn’t stop seeing in his dreams—were empty now, staring past him, through him.
Thane stared, frozen. He was vaguely aware of warm blood splashed across his face. It dripped down his cheek onto his shirt.
She was going to shoot me.
His fingers trembled.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Zel barked, stepping in behind him, weapon still raised.
Trish lay slumped against the doorframe, bleeding from a shot to the chest. A wet, wheezing gasp tore from her lips—the soundof a flail chest, broken ribs, punctured lung—as blood gurgled around her.
“Shit, she’s still alive…” Zel moved forward.
Then Jac burst in, wild-eyed, diving to her side. He exposed her wound before he tore his shirt off and pressed it to the wound, applying pressure with both hands.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t—” Jac gasped, looking at Thane. “We’re with organized crime. She’s one of ours.”
Then he turned his attention back to Trish. “Just hold on, Fee. Don’t talk. They’re coming. They’re on the way.”
Trish—Fee—grabbed Thane’s wrist with a blood-slick hand. “Take your contacts out,” she rasped, “I want to see.”
He blinked, stunned. “What…”
Zel stared, shocked silent.
Thane looked at the familiar face.
One of Trish’s eyes was the clearest, sharpest blue he’d ever seen.
He staggered back. “Your eye…”
“That’s twice I saved your arse,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice.
Her skin was going pale. Blood pooled beneath her.
Then the unmistakable roar of a helicopter split the night.
A man in fatigues burst through the door, face stricken, voice cracking. “Fee!”
Chapter 22
The hospital waiting room stank of antiseptic, sweat, and fear.
They sat in that grey-lit purgatory for what felt like hours. Bone-deep exhaustion invaded his bones, but Thane could not give in.
The wall clock ticked too loud. A vending machine hummed like a distant generator. A child cried somewhere down the corridor. Nurses came and went, eyes tired, uniforms wrinkled, none of them stopping. Someone offered them black tar masquerading as coffee, and Thane didn’t say no. He was still trying to process what had just happened.
Jac sat slumped in a cracked vinyl chair, elbows on his knees, stained hands dangling uselessly between them. His pale green undershirt clung to his back, streaked with blood and grime. He hadn’t bothered to change. He hadn’t spoken, either, beyond that single, heavy refrain.
“You should’ve left her alone.”
The words still echoed in Thane’s skull, though Jac hadn’t repeated them since they’d gotten into the car. The drive toRoyal Stoke had passed in silence. Jac had driven like a man possessed. Zel had stayed back to deal with the mess—the paperwork and the official lies.
