Page 107 of Feral King

“I see it.” He turns his attention to his own phone, and I can see that it’s dead, too.

His expression changes from civilian to soldier in a heartbeat. He flicks his gaze up at the rearview mirror.

“We’ve got company.”

I turn around to see two black SUVs, about thirty feet back. Their headlights slice through the rain.

Misha speeds up and the SUVs match our speed. He changes lanes, veering hard and suddenly, and they follow, closing the gap quickly. A third SUV appears, boxing us in.

“Misha, the baby?—”

“I know. Hold on.”

He yanks the wheel to the right hard, cutting across two lanes toward an exit ramp. Tires scream on wet asphalt while a clap of thunder cracks in the distance. The first SUV is too slow to react, continuing along. But the second follows, right on our tail.

Misha flies through the red light at the bottom of the ramp. I scream as we zoom through the intersection, other cars blaring their horns at us. Rain hammers the windshield so hard that the wipers can barely keep up.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” Misha says. “Whatever happens?—”

The impact comes from behind, cutting him off. The car lurches forward as the SUV slams into the rear bumper. My seatbelt locks and my head snaps back.

The world goes white, then comes back in fragments—shattered taillight glass, hissing steam, Misha’s hands frantic on the wheel fighting the wild turn.

The car spins around and we careen across the road before slamming into a concrete construction barrier. The airbags explode. There’s a chemical dust in the air, and my ears are ringing.

“Lyra! Are you hurt?”

I hear the question, but my mind is a blur.

“No, I don’t think so. The baby.”

“We need to move. Right?—”

The driver’s-side window explodes. I see a gloved fist, then an arm, a masked figure dressed all in black reaching through the shattered glass and grabbing Misha by the collar.

Trained and lethal, Misha quickly reacts, reaching for the weapon on his hip. He raises the gun halfway up before the masked man shoots him.

Misha’s body jerks. He drops the gun into the footwell as blood blooms across his chest. His body slumps against the steering wheel and the horn blares, one long continuous noise as the rain pounds against the glass.

I let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Misha!"

The passenger door is wrenched open. Roughly gloved hands grab my arms. I kick, scratch, and fight with everything I have.

"Don't touch me! Get off me!” I shout to no avail.

They drag me from the car. Rain hits my face as the ultrasound printout falls out and lands in a puddle, the picture of my little kidney bean dissolving into the water.

I scream Julian's name as a hood is placed over my head.

CHAPTER 40

JULIAN

Dobrov’s gun is pointed at my chest.

The silver of his pistol catches the low industrial light, throwing a streaked reflection across the wall. He looks confident, cocky.