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The shot that follows is so sudden that I almost fire back.
“Don’t shoot!” I shout and duck, my gun still pointing at the darkness where his goons are.
Everyone freezes.
There is another shout.
“Don’t fucking shoot!”
It’s Crone.
And he’s too late.
Because Bo on top of him slumps with a growl and slowly curls into a fetal position.
Crone is up on his feet in seconds. “You fucking moron,” he hisses to someone. “Don’t fucking shoot! Back off! Now!”
They start backing away into the darkness, blinding us with their flashlights, dragging Katura and Callie with them, guns on us.
I stare at Bo on the ground.
My heart races.
No-no-no.
Bo’s body twists slowly like burned paper.
My heart is ripping through my chest.
“Bo!” I call out.
The Westsiders are moving away. I lunge after them, but a hand grips my shirt and roughly jerks me back.
“Stop!” It’s Ty. “They will fucking shoot you! Let go!”
Of course, he is fucking calm. Dani is not with them. But Callie is. And she is being dragged away.
“You follow, we shoot.” The voice comes from the darkness where the flashlights flicker between the trees. There are dozens of men. Another dozen probably hiding in the bushes. More of them on the beach. We have no chance. It’s fucking pathetic.
We are not following.
We can’t.
We shouldn’t unless we want to die.
Instead, we rush to Bo.
“Bo!” I shout, dropping down to my knees.
He grunts as we flip him onto his back.
“Bo, look at me, it will be okay.”
It won’t be.
For now, I push away the thoughts about Callie and Katura and Crone, and all I see is the black spot growing bigger like a halo on Bo’s shirt in the faint light of someone’s flashlight that flickers around like an epileptic.
“Keep that fucking light here!” I bark.
