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“Consider me a changed woman,” I muttered as we bounced over a pothole. “One who is actually becoming tired of this crazy shitshow I call a career.”
* * *
We madeit another half a block when a figure sprinted out into the road, hands up, staggering to a halt at the same time I slammed the brakes.
Theo and I flipped forward, the seatbelts too tight on both our necks to allow for enough breath to curse. When the ricochet stopped and the back of my skull slammed into the headrest, I opened my eyes, praying I didn’t hit the person.
A man who was still standing in front of our vehicle.
And it wasn’t his hands he was holding up.
It was a gun.
“Trace,” Theo mumbled. He blinked hard, rubbing at the back of his head and grimacing when he pulled back his hand and spotted the blood.
How many head wounds had he sustained today? The pessimistic part of me reasoned it didn’t matter, since there was now a gun pointed at it.
Trace mouthed through the grit and ash lining his face, “Get out of the car.”
His voice was muffled, barely heard through the cooling engine and my now heavy breaths. I didn’t want to get out. Actually, I did, but I wanted out of this entirely. Gone with the wind. No more crime family nipping at my heels.
“Get,” Trace mouthed a second time, “Out.”
The windshield cracked with a gunshot and I screamed, covering my head and grabbing for Theo at the same time.
“I mean it!” Trace yelled, much clearer now. “Get out or I won’t miss next time!”
“Come on,” Theo said. He squeezed my hand, where my fingers were latched around his biceps, then moved to unclip his seatbelt. “He’s not bluffing.”
“We can’t—”
“We have to, Scarlet.”
“I can run him over.”
“Not before he lets loose another shot.”
“We can at least try—”
“Whether it goes wide or not, the chances of him hitting one of us are high. I’m not risking you anymore. Let’s go.”
“Get out of the fucking car!”
Trace rounded to my side, his face a mask of dirt and devil, the pink of his flesh only seen through carved out age-lines, the grime making him seem decades older. Perhaps, in his poisoned soul, he was.
He jiggled the locked door handle, and when that didn’t work, slammed a palm against the window. I couldn’t help it—I cried out and jerked back.
Trace raised the pistol and aimed for my face.
“I’m coming!” I yelled with raised hands. Slowly, I lowered one to press the unlock button.
Trace didn’t wait for me to open the door myself. I was yanked out by the arm, my legs tangling, and I landed shoulder-first onto the road.
Self-defense kicked in and I shielded my face while lashing out with my legs. A lot of movement meant less chance of an accurate shot. During these years without the Saxon brothers in my life, I’d learned plenty about bullet trajectories and the odds of having one embedded in your body.
An unearthly roar followed, and the sound of shoes crushing loose stones, before Trace’s shadow no longer loomed over me, bright sun taking its place before Theo eclipsed it with the span of his form.
Panting, Theo towered over his brother.
