The jeep jerks to the right and avoids that ditch and fire, rising onto the paved road behind us. Mario shoves his way into my seat and boxes me in just as bullets shatter the back windows.
His meaty hand shoves at my shoulder. "Get down! And stay down!"
I comply as he radios for help, and another pained grunt reverberates through the cabin from somewhere at the back of the bus.
Is someone else hit?
My mind races as all around, alphas rustle through their bags for whatever weapons they have. But this was supposed to be a simple deployment. I don't think anyone's armed well enough to compete with that jeep. I know I'm not. Basic handguns won't cut it.
We aren't even close to the battlefield…
We're still well within Hypso territory and shouldn’t be facing this at all. But we've been ambushed.
"I've got sixteen rounds," someone calls out.
"Nine," another responds.
"Aim for their tires!" a third man yells.
Blasts bellow from the back of the bus, but curses follow.
Hot tears prickle at the backs of my eyes as regret throws a grappling hook that digs into the back of my throat and starts to climb, kicking at my vocal cords, choking me.
Was this a mistake?
Did I escape the Noths twice, only to be taken out on the side of a road?
Fuck! What will this mean for Ted? For my mates? What will they do if they discover I died trying to get to them? Will they be able to move on? Will they know it’s not their fault? I can't have anyone discover my dead body this way…
And then an even darker realization strips me down, flays my mind, and leaves me with a raw ache.
This attack is because of me.
Because they're after Ted.
Those soldiers at the back of the bus are dead because I couldn't stand to be apart from my mates. Because I couldn't bear to take the armored entourage…which would have included a second car. More protection for everyone.
It's my fault.
The knowledge slams down like a guillotine.
Chops like a blunt axe.
Skewers me.
I can't let anyone else die because of me. But what the hell can I do?
My gaze bends around Mario's legs as I beg inspiration to strike.
It doesn't.
A bullet does.
My guard goes down one second.
The bus driver slumps forward onto the wheel the next.
SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.
