“Medic,” Dom ordered. “Now. Before he bleeds out being noble.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're dying. There's a difference.”
Hands guided me toward one of the vehicles. Medical supplies appearing. Someone cutting away my jacket. My shirt. Exposing damage I didn't want to assess.
“Shoulder's through and through,” a voice said. Medic. Young. Competent. “Thigh's worse. Bullet's still in there. Needs surgery.”
“Later.”
“Now. Or you'll go septic in six hours.”
“Don't have six hours.” I tried to stand again. Failed again. “Sebastian doesn't have six hours.”
“Then you better let me work fast.”
Pain exploded. Worse than before. The medic was digging in my thigh with instruments that felt like fire. I gripped the vehicle's door frame. Let pain anchor me. Keep me conscious. Keep me focused.
“Viktor.” Adrian's voice through the comm. Tight. Controlled. But I heard the fear underneath. “What's your status?”
“Operational.”
“Bullshit. Noah says you're barely conscious.”
“I'm conscious enough to find Sebastian.”
Static. Then: “Marcel's gone to ground. Every traffic cam within five miles is scrubbed. Border control's on alert but he's got diplomatic immunity in four countries. If he leaves UK soil?—”
“He won't.” I forced the words through clenched teeth. “He needs Sebastian close. Needs leverage over the King. Running defeats the purpose.”
“Then where?” Adrian's frustration bled through. “We've hit every property registered to him. Every shell company. Every?—”
“Not the obvious ones. The secret ones.” I looked at Dom. At the team. At my family bound by blood and battle. “We need the King. He's the only one who knows Marcel's true contingencies.”
More static. Then: “I'll arrange transport to the palace. ETA twenty minutes.”
“Make it ten.”
“Viktor—”
“Ten minutes, Adrian. Or I'm walking.”
The call ended.
The medic finished. Bandaged me tight enough to keep me upright. Shoved pills in my hand. “Antibiotics. Painkillers. Take them.”
I dry-swallowed both. Tasted nothing. Felt nothing except the hollow ache where Sebastian should've been.
Sirens wailed closer. Police. Fire department. All the official responses that came too late to matter.
“We need to move,” Luka said. “Before they lock down the scene.”
We climbed into vehicles. Blood-soaked. Ash-covered. Moving on adrenaline and rage and the desperate need to fix this.
To undo the last ten minutes.
To rewrite history before it became permanent.
