He jerks, growls, blood slicking down his cheek in a bright red streak.
“You hit?” I yell.
“I’m good,” he mutters, wiping it across his jaw with the back of his hand.
I’m watching that SUV. It closes in. I can see the passenger reaching, weapon drawn, angling for Travis. They want to end this quickly. Kill the driver, flip the SUV, pick off whoever survives.
“Hold it,” I shout. “Two seconds.”
Travis gives me a window.
I lean out farther. Wind tears at my face. My shoulder is screaming, but I block it out. I focus. I aim.
I find the driver’s eyes just before I fire.
The bullet hits him right in the forehead. His head jerks back. The van swerves violently. One tire climbs the curb. Then the entire vehicle lifts, flips, scrapes along the asphalt with a howl of metal on pavement.
It slams into a light pole, then rolls again.
On the second roll it clips a parked car, metal grinds, sparks spit, and something underneath ruptures. Fuel sprays and catches. Then the fire hits. The explosion rocks the SUV, a bloom of orange and black that lights up the inside like a flashbang. Heat sears through the broken window. Travis doesn’t slow. He guns it harder, wheels screeching as we put distance between us and the wreckage.
“Stay down,” I bark. “Nobody moves.”
Still nothing from the back. I can’t tell if they’re frozen or hiding or crying.
We take backroads. Travis zigzags, throws in a few loops. Beau reloads in silence, his cheek still bleeding.
I watch Brooke. She’s still folded over the kids. Naomi is sitting up now, muttering something low, her hands running over Elise’s arms. Elise doesn’t move. Ryan’s eyes are still locked on the floor.
I tell myself they’re alive. That’s enough.
But it doesn’t feel like enough.
Not when I dragged them into this. Not when my blood is on the seat and Beau’s cheek is split open and Brooke’s heartbeat is still trying to crawl out of her skin. Not when Elise and Ryan, kids I never even got to meet properly, just watched bullets tear past their heads because I showed up in their life a decade too late.
Once I make sure no one follows us and the road stays empty, we get the kids off the floor and into their seats. They move without a word, too stunned to fight it, too quiet for kids their age. We still have hours before we make it back to the house, and the silence stretches the whole way. I keep my eyes on the road or anywhere but them. I don’t say anything. I don’t trust myself to.
We arrive at the house, I throw the SUV door open and climb out first, gun still in hand, my eyes scanning the dark treeline out of habit. There is nothing but trees, gravel, and the weight of what we just outran. My chest is tight. My hands won’t unclench.
Brooke slides out next, protective until the end, one hand still gripping Naomi’s arm, the other hovering near Elise like she is afraid the girl might bolt.
I catch her wrist. “You hurt?”
She looks up fast, startled. Her eyes are wide but focused. “I’m okay.”
I step closer and kiss her. I feel her hands grip my jacket, and I breathe her in like it might settle the guilt inside me.
“I need to check you,” I mutter.
“I’m fine. You’re the one who got glass in your neck, asshole.” She brushes the small shards of glass off my shoulder.
“I’ve had worse,” I smirk as I look her over again anyway.
The back door creaks open.
Brooke turns immediately, her attention shifting.
“Elise, Ryan, come on. You can come out now.”
