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The van’s engine purrs as we navigate the roads toward Presidio.
Tony pushes down on the accelerator, and I can't help but steal glances at Scarlett beside me.
“Roadblock ahead,” Jess announces, pointing to flashing blue lights in the distance.
“Blyad.” Cops must be crawling everywhere after the shootout that just happened. I lean forward, assessing the situation.
“Take the next left,” I order, my voice firm. The tires screech as Tony makes the sharp turn, veering us off course onto a narrow side road.
“Where are we going, bruh?” Cody asks, his usually cocky attitude replaced by unease.
“Detour,” I reply curtly, thoughts racing through my head as I calculate our new route. The atmosphere inside the van is suddenly a pressure cooker of anxiety once again. Every breath shared between us is heavy with uncertainty. “It’ll add another twenty minutes to the trip, but it’ll keep the cops away.” My explanation seems to satisfy them because it’s met with quiet acceptance.
A sharp groan from Art catches my attention, and I notice his makeshift bandage is now completely soaked through with blood.
Worry tightens Scarlett’s features. “We need to get you both to a hospital.”
“Nyet,” I argue, shaking my head. The movement makes me dizzy. “Art maybe. I’m fine.”
“Anton, don’t be stubborn.” Her eyes narrow. “Your head – you took a pretty solid pounding back there.”
I shrug, trying not to grimace as my torn skin pulls against the gash between my shoulder blades. Probably needs stitches, but Luka can do it. I don’t need doctors fucking with me.
“Once we are safe, I will tend to my own injuries.”
“For God’s sake, Anton, don’t be an ass! Will you—”
“Let’s just focus on getting out of here first,” Tony interrupts, his eyes scanning the darkness outside the van.
“Exactly,” I agree, my gaze never leaving Scarlett’s. She knows I won’t back down, and though her jaw clenches in frustration, she doesn’t push further.
Another groan has my attention back on Art. The man is slumping sideways, from the bloodloss.
“That’s it! Hospital!” Scarlett says more firmly. “No arguments!”
“We can't.” I stick my jaw out. “The cops. If we go in there with gunshot wounds-”
“Jess will handle it,” Scarlett says. “She has contacts. You’re going, and that’s final.”
As if to prove Scarlett’s point, Art slumps further sideways. Fuck, she’s probably has a point. The guy needs to be stitched up.
Blyad.
I shoot Scarlett a glance and tap Tony on the shoulder, indicating a turnoff. “Take the next left. It’ll get us to the county hospital.” I turn back to Art. “You think you can hold on?”
He gives me a weak thumbs up. “Piece of cake.”
“He’s bleeding too much,” Scarlett says, her voice filled with concern. “We need to get there and quick.”
“On it, Scar,” Tony replies, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he takes a sharp turn and steps on the gas. The van’s engine roars and glancing down at Nikolai, I marvel at his ability to sleep through the commotion.
“How much longer?” Jess asks Tony, her fingers tapping nervously on the dashboard.
“Ten minutes, tops,” he answers, accelerating even faster.
Less than ten minutes later, the hospital comes into view, its sterile white exterior standing out starkly against the night. As Tony pulls up to the emergency entrance, Jess hops out and runs inside, alerting the staff to Art’s condition.
“Anton, you’re going in too,” Scarlett insists, giving me a hard look. “Don't make me drag you.”
