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I mean, for fuck’s sake, did he never even see a cop show in his life? You never all went in the front door.

Sighing, I moved toward the back of the house, wanting to wait so we could both go in at the same time, but I just got to the door when I heard Carver inside and hollering.

I was reaching for my gun when the back door flew open, knocking me back a step.

“The fuck…” a voice said, caught off-guard by Carver not coming alone. “I think the fuck not,” he said, and the knife was jamming into my gut before I could even raise my hand to shoot.

Once, twice, four times.

The pain was searing for a second before the adrenaline kicked in.

“Hey! Get back here, you fuck!” Carver called, running out the back door, ready to chase down Len.

“Carver!” I barked, watching him turn back, looking at me with my bloody shirt, my bloody hands.

“Sorry, man, gotta get the cash,” he said, turning and running.

“Motherfucker,” I hissed as he took off.

You never left someone behind.

Ever.

He’d have known that if anyone would have been willing to fucking work with him.

“Goddamn it,” I hissed as I took a step, feeling the pain sear through the adrenaline, making me damn near double over.

I’d been shot before with less issues.

I’d had Harmon do makeshift surgery on me in the kitchen at the clubhouse without a problem.

But a couple stab wounds were making me break out into a cold sweat with each step, until my shirt was sticking to me. With sweat. With blood.

I was feeling a bit lightheaded by the time I made it to the car, opening the backseat, and pouring myself in with a string of curses.

Then I just floated in and out of consciousness until, suddenly, the front door was slamming, the engine was starting, and Carver was flooring it out of there.

But I couldn’t seem to muster the strength right then to say anything. It wasn’t until the next time I woke up, when Carver took a corner too hard and had me rolling on the seat, making the pain course through me so hard that I was shocked I didn’t puke.

“Carver,” I called, wincing as he slammed on the brakes.

“Jesus fuck. How’d you get in there?” Carver asked, looking over the seat, eyes wide.

How did he miss me?

It took a beat for me to realize what he’d just said, though.

That he hadn’t known I was in the backseat.

That he thought he was leaving me behind.

Stabbed and bleeding, possibly dying for all he knew, behind some random fucker’s hideout house.

He was totally fine with leaving me behind.

“Take me to the clinic in the old neighborhood,” I demanded.

“Man, I have plans.”

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