Page 20 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
Oh, and I bet he isn’t.
Hired thugs again? Ophelia must make a lot of money off those stolen, sex-trafficked little girls.
Callum rises to his feet, aims a weapon down at the man, and pulls the trigger. It’s a quick execution, far quicker than the man probably deserves. And then Cal turns, and his blue eyes flash silver in the moonlight.
He stiffens up, and then scrambles down the hill, appearing at our side in the span of a few blinks.
“She was shot,” Vic says, holding his hands on my head as he probes at the wound. I must be running on crazy amounts of adrenaline because I just slap at him as Cal joins him, a pair of wolves fawning over me like a cub.
“I’m just fine,” I murmur, but holy shitballs there’s a lot of blood. It’s hot on the side of my face, running down my neck, soaking my pretty pink dress. Looking down, I realize that my outfit has suddenly become a hell of a lot more appropriate. This is me. Bernadette Savannah Blackbird. Pretty in pink, but tainted by blood. “Let go of me.”
“It’s a head wound; there’s bound to be a lot of blood,” Callum murmurs as Oscar circles around us, revolver at the ready. Nobody else has noticed that I’ve been shot. Hael is still singing; the crowd is still bouncing. Seems like my shooter had a silencer on his rifle. “But she’s right: she’s okay. The bullet just grazed her.”
“Thanks to you,” Vic says gratefully, and Cal nods briefly, brushing his thumb across my lower lip. It’s meant to be an affectionate gesture, but he has red all over his hands, so I just taste the copper of my own lifeblood. “Let’s blow this joint.”
“Not happening,” Oscar says, and when I sit up to see what he’s looking at, my head spins and I get so dizzy that I almost retch. So much blood. So, so much of it. With a groan, I put my head between my knees as Vic sits back with another curse. Pretty sure he says something weird like fuck a succubus’ cunt, but I also might’ve imagined it. My head is spinning like crazy. “These guys are professionals. They aren’t Ophelia’s hired thugs—this is the GMP.”
“You’re kidding me?” Vic snarls as I lift my head up and open my eyes. Cal has dragged the man down the hill, using the shadows of the woods to keep the body hidden from the wandering eyes of partying students. He kicks the man over and then pushes his sleeve up, revealing a tattoo that looks like a graffiti tag.
“The GMP?” I murmur, swaying slightly as Vic removes his button-down, bundling it up and pressing it against my head wound. He takes my hand and places it over the shirt, encouraging me to hold it there.
“The Grand Murder Party,” Victor says with a long sigh. “It’s a fucked-up white supremacist gang from Portland.” He wraps his arm around my waist, lifting me off the ground. I sway a bit when he sets me down, but Vic doesn’t let go, so I have time to find my feet. “No goddamn clue why they’d care what happens between two baby gangs in Springfield of all places.”
“I told you this was a possibility,” Oscar says, his gun in one hand, phone in the other. He’s sending off texts like crazy. “They were supplying product for the Charter Crew, but that doesn’t explain their presence here.”
“Unless we’re starting to scare them,” Callum commented, his eyes scanning the trees. “Bet you we find another dozen of them lurking around. This feels like a planned hit.”
“Agreed.” Vic grabs onto my hand, squeezing too hard. “Oscar, get Hael. Cal, start searching the trees.” The boys nod and break away from us, but not before Oscar’s eyes meet mine and narrow slightly. If he were any other person, I might think he was worried about the blood gushing out of my head. “Come with me.”
Victor crouches low and I copy him, letting him drag me through the maze of cars. We weave between luxury vehicles, minivans, and clunkers, the stark socioeconomic difference between the vehicles noticeable, even in such a high-octane situation. Traditionally, on Snow Day, the Oak Valley Prep kids leave their keys in their cars. Prescott students can take them for a joyride provided they’re back by sunrise. If they’re not … well, Oak Valley brats don’t give a shit anyway. Mommy and Daddy will just buy them a new Lambo, right?
“Here.” Vic opens the door to a black Aston Martin. It’s a keyless start—of course it is—so he doesn’t bother handing the keys to me, but he does check the cup holder to make sure they’re inside the car. “Get in and drive back to town.”
I look at him like he’s just grown horns.
