Page 58 of Yours on the Canvas

We turn, sprinting through the narrow, garbage-choked alleyways as a wall of lead chases our heels.

Running in full gear is a fucking nightmare. Every step feels like wading through wet cement. My vest slams against my chest, jarring everything inside me, and the weight strapped to my thighs drags my legs down like anchors.

Gunfire pounds the air, a deafening, relentless drumbeat bouncing off the damp brick walls, rattling my skull and vibrating straight through my ribs. A round grazes the brick beside my ear, spraying hot stone dust across my neck.

“Secondary vehicle! End of the lane, left side!” Callan shouts over the roar of gun fire, blood already dripping from a fresh graze on his forearm where a round clipped him.

We round the corner hard, our boots skidding across slick grease, trash, and pooling rainwater.

Mack slams his shoulder into the side door of a van tucked beside a old, building, ripping the door open with a violent screech. We pile in, diving over the middle seats as three more rounds punch straight through the back panel, spraying shattered glass across the interior and cutting into our skin. Blood hits the floor in thin red drops.

I scramble into the driver’s seat, “Fuck!” My vest catching on the steering column before I wrench myself free and slam the doors shut from the inside.

I throw the van into drive, stomp on the accelerator, and the engine screams as we tear out of the alley, tires spitting gravel and choking white smoke behind us.

We’re flying down the wet, twisting mountain road that snakes out of the border town, the engine howling under the strain. In the rearview mirror, I see two sedans appear fast, their headlights blinding, rifle barrels already jutting out of their rolled-down windows.

My knuckles are white, welded to the steering wheel, but my mind isn’t on the road or the headlights closing in behind us. It’s trapped in that sterile hospital room.

He ran.

Why. What had caused him to run. He’s hurt. Why was he running. Was he leaving me?

I know Jack wouldn’t just leave me. My gut tells me he was running from or too something. It isn’t his first instinct to save himself. It’s in his nature to shield someone else from the monsters. Was that what he did?

A heavy, suffocating realisation drops straight into the center of my chest, cutting deeper and sharper than any knife.

For months, I’ve lied to myself; pretended keeping it casual was protecting him, that staying detached kept him out of my shadows. But as the road blurs through hot tears of terror and rage, the truth hits me so hard it steals my breath.

I love him.

Holy fuck, I love him.

I love the way he looks at me like I hung the stars in the sky, the way he trusts me with his broken, bleeding pieces, the way he whispers my name and calls me Sol. And if I make it out of this alive; if I survive this fucking mountain pass, the very first words out of my mouth when I look into his eyes are going to be that I love him.

Fully. Without conditions. Without hiding behind the armour.

The car hits us like a sledgehammer, throwing the van into a violent sideways skid across the wet asphalt.

I fight to pull it back onto the road, “Fuck!”

“They’re running us off the road!” Callan shouts from the back, slamming a fresh magazine into his rifle.

“Hang on!” I roar, steering hard into the slide. Burning rubber fills the air as we clip a concrete guardrail, bright orange sparks spraying into the night.

I wrench the wheel again, spinning the van across the narrow single-lane road, blocking both directions. Before the sedans behind us can brake, Mack and Callan are already out, weapons raised and firing in bursts of three.

The firefight hits instantly.

The enemy bails from their vehicles, using doors and trees for cover. Us, we only have the van. Muzzle flashes rip against the dark pine trunks like jagged lightning. Gunpowder thickens the air, choking my throat, stinging my eyes.

I kick my door open and drag myself out, drawing my pistol, but before I can even lift my arm, searing agony tears through my left shoulder. The impact spins me back against the van.

A hot rush of blood soaks through my vest and shirt, the fabric sticking to my skin as the pain spikes white-hot.

“Silas!” Mack roars over the gunfire.

“I’m okay,” I yell, firing at the fuckers who just shot me.