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When it sounds like there’s a slight lull, I reload my pistol and then take the time to peer around again. This time I see Travis hunkered down behind a metal barrel about twenty yards away from us.
He’s got a rifle, and he obviously knows what he’s doing. He takes down two of the men in my range as I watch. One after the other.
But evidently I’m not the only one to see this. He’s suddenly the target of massive gunfire. The Wolf Packs must have some automatic weapons because he’s pummeled with bullets. That barrel provides very little protection, so he’s completely trapped. Unable to fire back. Unable to move.
A slice of terror for him cuts through my chest.
“Grant!” I scream to be heard over the roar of noise surrounding us. Grant has been stationed on the other side of the pickup from me, shooting and ducking for cover like I am.
When he glances over, I gesture toward Travis behind the barrel. “He’s trapped there. Can you help him?”
Grant comes closer and peers out so he can get his eyes on the situation. He assesses it quickly and starts to move. Then he pauses and looks back at me.
I know exactly what he’s thinking. He doesn’t want to leave me unprotected—even to save someone else.
“No way,” I grit out. “I’m fine. He isn’t. He has a pregnant wife at home, so you get him out of there, or I’ll do it myself.”
I see the shift on his tense face as he acknowledges the words. Then he nods and positions his gun on his shoulder. “Cover me as much as you can.”
I stand up and start shooting as Grant moves out of the protection of the pickup. Like before, there’s no way I can know whether I’m hitting anything, but simply shooting in the right direction should help.
It does. Between me and Grant, we give Travis enough cover to get out from behind the barrel. He runs and lunges behind the pickup truck beside me.
Grant is on his way back too when a big guy charges at him. The man must be out of ammunition because he doesn’t try to shoot. He comes out of nowhere at a dead run, and it looks for a moment like he’ll knock Grant right off his feet.
But Grant turns just in time, swinging out to catch the man with an arm right in the gut. Then he makes a move so quick I can’t quite track it, and the attacker ends up motionless on the ground.
I let out a breath. Grant managed that whole thing with one arm since he’s still holding his weapon with the other.
His eyes meet mine again as he starts back toward us, and I’d swear there’s almost a smile in his expression.
That’s when he gets shot.
I have no idea who did it or where it comes from. But I hear the crack. See Grant’s body twitch sickeningly. Then it slumps forward to the ground.
I try to scream but no sound comes out. My throat has completely closed up.
There’s no way I can make my mind work enough to assess what’s best to do right now. All my instincts are demanding to get to him, so there’s nothing to do but follow them. I dart out from behind the pickup, ignoring Travis who calls out, “Olivia, no!”
I race over to where Grant is lying on dirt that’s already turning bloody and kneel down beside him.
One part of my mind is aware that the gunfire around me has picked up. Travis and the others must be providing cover for me and Grant because I’m not immediately hit by a bullet.
I use all my strength to turn Grant over onto his back and almost sob when I see the gunshot in this thigh.
His thigh. He wasn’t shot in the chest.
“Get back,” he rasps out, sounding pained and angry both. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I can’t leave you out here. Can you move?”
“Get the fuck behind the truck!” His face is drenched and dead white. Despite my relief at the location of his wound, the way he looks right now terrifies me.
“I’m not leaving you, so you might as well just shut up. Can you get up?”
He groans—more in frustration at me than in pain—but he doesn’t argue anymore. With what is obviously a huge force of will, he pushes himself to a sitting position, his eyes moving behind me. There’s less shooting now than there was. Travis and Mack and the others must have taken some of the shooters out.
“Take this,” he mutters, pushing his assault rifle at me. “I’m going to be slow.”
