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So a bomb had gone off. But no one was burned. And the propane tanks were intact? Had his ravine somehow insulated them from damage? Or had—
Then Michael realized.
Tyler. He was a Fire Elemental. Had his powers weakened the bomb, the way Michael’s powers had offered a way out of the blast path?
More dirt rained down the walls. Splintered planks of wood fell from above. Michael shoved his back against the ravine wall and sent power into the earth again.
“Steady,” he whispered. “Steady.” He could feel vehicles moving now, where they’d been still for the longest time.
He texted quickly.
Don’t move vehicles. Ground unstable.
It took a minute, but the motion stopped. Michael choked on his breath.
Hannah sent another text.
Are you in a basement? Can you send me pics of layout?
Michael aimed the phone up and started snapping pictures, trying to get the angles right. More debris fell from above and stung where it struck his face and forearms.
Then the flash lit up a face looking down at him from above.
“Hey!” Michael called into the darkness. He sent the photos to Hannah while he was peering up. “Hey! The edges aren’t stable! Be careful!”
No response. Michael snapped another pic, hoping to get another image of the person. Was this a bomb squad technician? Or another survivor?
The flash went off. A gun fired.
Michael felt the bullet hit his shoulder. Goddamn, it hurt. It knocked him into the wall, and he lost the phone. More dirt poured down around him. The ground rumbled.
Another gunshot. He had no idea where it hit, but pain blossomed through his chest.
That wasn’t good, right? He wished he still had the phone so he could ask Hannah. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t move.
Another gunshot.
Shouting erupted overhead. More gunfire.
Then nothing but darkness.
CHAPTER 14
Michael could move before he could see. Intermittent beeping filled his ears. His chest felt tight and painful, like someone had parked a car on his midsection. He shifted and felt soft cotton against his skin.
His eyes cracked open and found a blurred ceiling, edged by beige walls with a bland flowered border. Metal poles towered over him, complete with dripping bags. A small monitor showed jagged lines and beeped at regular intervals.
A hospital. He was in a hospital.
His brain didn’t want to work. How—when—?
He lifted a hand to rub his eyes—but his arm hit resistance.
He tried again, and this time he heard the rattle of metal against plastic. He jerked hard and blinked his eyes before he figured out what was going on.
Handcuffs chained his right hand to the bed rail.
His heart rate tripled, making the beeping behind him accelerate. Every muscle in his upper body protested, but he forced himself upright. His chest felt as if it might cave in. More metal clinked and rattled.
