Elliot fucking Grant is going to die.
For a moment, all I hear is the ticking of overheated metal and the hiss of smoke curling out from under the hood.
We move fast, weapons raised, eyes locked on the wreck. Elliot’s body hangs halfway over the steering wheel, his tailored blazer soaked with blood. It has poured down his shirt, splattered across the shattered windshield, smeared with the pattern of his face where it slammed forward.
Then the driver’s door flies open.
He collapses out of the car and hits the pavement hard. Blood spills from his mouth and nose in thick, dark streams. He coughs wetly, twists onto his side, and rolls to his knees, hands shaking. His face is cut open, jaw split along one side.
He raises the pistol and fires blindly.
Rounds slam into the side of our car. The windshield fractures again. A headlight explodes with a sharp pop, glass bursting across the street. Brooke drops low, fires back with clean shots. One hits him in the shoulder, spinning him, blood trailing mid-air. He stays upright.
Then he runs.
He limps toward the open street, dragging one leg, leaving a broken trail of blood across the pavement. His other arm dangles, dislocated or worse. He doesn't look back. He just moves.
We jump back into the car. I floor the gas.
The tires scream, and the frame jolts as we launch forward.
He tries to cut through the intersection. He makes it halfway across the crosswalk before I reach him.
The front end of the car smashes into his body with the full force of the engine behind it. His body snaps backward, limbs whipping out of sync with each other. His spine folds against the hood.I hear bones break in rapid succession. His head slams into the windshield. The glass collapses inward, webbing instantly with cracks.
He rolls up and over the top of the car, thuds onto the roof, and bounces off the back, slamming onto the street like a dropped carcass.
I brake hard and skid to a stop. Smoke pours from the front grill. Fluid pools under the car.
Brooke is already moving, hair lashing in the cold air.
I step out and approach what is left of him.
Elliot twitches on the pavement. Blood spills from his mouth in long ropes, his lips peeled back from shattered teeth. One leg is ruined, bent at angles that shred muscle. Bone pushes out through one thigh, the skin split and gaping. His shoulder is caved in. One arm lies folded under his chest. Chunks of flesh are missing from where he skidded across the asphalt.
He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is wet breath and blood.
I bring my boot down on his wrist. The bones shatter instantly, tendons snapping beneath my heel. The scream that comes out of him barely makes it past the blood clogging his throat.
I grab what is left of his expensive jacket and drag him across the pavement. His legs leave two thick red smears trailing behind. One of his shoes has come off, and the bare foot twists limp, shredded at the heel. His femur juts fully out of the torn skin. His broken arm flops with each pull, bone sawing against the ground.
He gurgles, choking on blood and broken teeth.
I reach the back of the car and pop the trunk. The latch clicks and the lid lifts, hinges groaning under the strain.
“Kincaid, you piece of shit,” he rasps. Blood bubbles at his mouth as he tries to crawl backward. “Don’t put me in there!” He claws at the asphalt with one hand that barely works, fingernails scraping uselessly against the pavement.
I grab him and haul him up. His body sags in places it should not, weight shifting wrong as bones slide against each other. I shove him into the trunk without slowing. He hits the metal hard, lands twisted on his side, andstarts screaming. The sound is shrill and broken, panic tearing through every breath.
I slam the trunk shut.
The steel dulls the noise just enough to make it tolerable.
I stand there for a second, listening to the muffled pounding and the sounds he makes when he realizes no one is coming. Then I walk back to the driver’s seat. My hands are slick with blood. I wipe them on the inside of my jacket, dragging my palms along the lining until the fabric darkens.
Brooke is already in the passenger seat.
I slide in beside her and glance over.
